Cathouse Kurt
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Kurt Hummel is forced into a marriage with David Karofsky when Kurt's father becomes gravely ill and all of their debts come due. But his marriage to David turns out to be an abusive one. It leads him to the doorstep of The Canary Cage Saloon, and a second deal with its charming owner - Blaine Anderson - this time to save his life. Klaine. Old West AU. Kurt H. Blaine A.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Full summary -** **Kurt's father is dying, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. Burt Hummel has built up so much debt trying to make a better life for his family that when he goes, everything the Hummel family owns will go with him. On top of losing the father he loves, Kurt will lose every dream he has of leaving his home town of Defiance, OH, to go to New York. But it's not just Kurt's dream that's in jeopardy. He has his stepmother, and a pregnant sister-in-law to consider, too. So in order to ensure that they have a future, Kurt makes a deal with the one man his father owes most of his money to - Paul Karofsky. Mr. Karofsky will erase the Hummel family's debt, as long as Kurt agrees to marry his son, David. Kurt hopes that if he can knuckle through, his stepmother and sister-in-law will be safe, and maybe he might end up in New York after all. But his marriage to David turns out to be an abusive one, that leads him to the doorstep of The Canary Cage Saloon, and a second deal with its charming owner - Blaine Anderson - this time to save his life.**

 **Written for the Kurt Hummel Big Bang 2015. This is an Old West AU. I left the time period kind of vague to give me some interpretive freedom, but I would put it around the 1850s. There may be some comments in here that are not PC by today's standards, but they fit the tone and the genre of the writing. I drew inspiration from many different sources, and did a fair amount of research, but there may be a few inaccuracies in here. They might be intentional, or just accidental. I ask that you overlook them :D Please be warned that this is a story primarily about someone overcoming spousal abuse during a brutal time in history. There will be mention of the beatings David inflicts on Kurt, as well as other elements of genre accurate violence (gun violence, fist fights, etc.). Also, as the story takes place in a brothel, there will be a lot of drinking and an assumption of sexual activity. And, as always, we're suspending a little disbelief with regard to the attitudes of people during this time period and views on homosexuality.**

 **Warnings for character death (not Kurt or Blaine), mention of Finn, rape, violence, non-con, sexual content, domestic abuse, prostitution, voyeurism, exhibitionism, orgy sex, oral sex, Kurtofsky, and minor Kurtbastian. Please keep these in mind! This is a very angsty fic!**

 **I also want to make mention that ForbiddenDusk did an incredible piece of artwork for this story :) It's wonderful and amazing, and I advise everyone to go look at it post/132667170126/klaine-fic-cathouse-kurt !**

 _Creak-crick…creak-crick…creak-crick…_

Kurt rocked in his mother's old rocking chair, back and forth, back and forth, wearing the porch boards beneath it. Kurt didn't have much that belonged to his mother. He'd been given her sewing machine, a wood chest, and a pair of shears. He'd held on to a coat she'd made him when he was about three, as well as this ancient rocking chair. It was already an heirloom when she'd gotten it from her grandmother, on her wedding day. She and Kurt's dad had brought it over from their home town in Iowa when they spread their wings to find a place to settle down and start a family. That flight only extended as far as Ohio, apparently, to a spit water town called Defiance. Why, Kurt didn't know, except his mother claimed that something about the land _felt right_. There wasn't much to be said about the town when his parents built their home there. Eighteen years later and there wasn't much more to its claim. It was flat, grassy land, and grey dust for miles, plenty for their cattle and their horses to graze on, fertile for the handful of apple trees in their small orchard and his mother's garden (now his stepmother's garden).

But for Kurt, the land was stagnant. Other things might thrive there, but he had started to atrophy.

Kurt stopped his rocking to watch a crow fly overhead, wondering where it was headed. So many times he watched the ducks and crows and ravens cut their paths across the sky, going this way and that, rarely landing, beating their wings hard to get where they were going. Kurt had never been outside of Defiance in his life. He nearly got the chance a few years back when he came down ill really bad. The man practicing medicine in their tiny town wasn't much of a doctor. Carl Howell was a man who cared for people's teeth by trade, and in Defiance, he didn't see a lot of business. He knew how to pull a breech calf, and sew up all manner of wound. The ladies around town managed most everything else, but they weren't knowledgeable in handling what turned out to be an infected appendix. As luck would have it, while Kurt's father was making plans to take Kurt to Columbus, a bona fide surgeon happened through, left for dead a few miles outside of town after an attack on his coach. He had been wandering for days, and landed right on their porch. Kurt's stepmother Carole fed him and fixed him up, and he fixed up Kurt in return, as a thank you for their aid.

Kurt's father said it was a good thing the man come along, or he would have had to take Kurt to Columbus for sure.

So Kurt loathed that man with every fiber of his being. Kurt was more than willing to risk one ruptured appendix if it meant getting to see Columbus. Kurt had yet to lay eyes on whatever was outside of Defiance's immediate borders, but that didn't matter to him since there wasn't a big city for miles. Not one big enough to suit Kurt's needs, anyway. He'd take any city at the moment, but the city of his dreams was New York.

The man who ran the saloon in town hailed from New York, and told Kurt fascinating stories about life there. He told Kurt about the fancy dress shops and the shows, and the people coming in from everywhere on huge ocean liners, even from London and Paris. Kurt knew his father wouldn't approve of him talking to this man, but he was the only person Kurt knew who had seen his dream first hand, who had lived within it and walked around, who had been a part of it. Kurt talked with that man every afternoon after school, as he walked through town on his way home. Having him to talk to was a nice stopgap while Kurt tried to figure out a way to get himself there.

Kurt was tired of small town life. He wanted to spread his own wings and fly as far away from Defiance as he could go.

This bird overhead, flapping its wings as if its life depended on it, could be headed to New York right now.

 _Wherever it's headed, it's smart as long as it doesn't stop here_ , Kurt thought, and began to rock the chair again.

 _Creak-crick…creak-crick…creak-crick…slam!_

The door to the house flew open. Kurt didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"Oh, Kurt!" Rachel cried. She hurried out the front door on bare feet, the sound of his father's raspy cough accompanying her steps. "This dress is perfect! Absolutely perfect!" She turned left and right in front of him, then twirled in a complete circle, hands holding her swollen belly. Even at six months pregnant, she had more energy than the lot of them living in the Hummel household. It was easy for her to be cheerful, even with swelled ankles and a morning sickness that had lingered way too long.

She, at least, had a future.

Kurt smiled as he watched her, her face glowing, her joy the only happiness he had so far to look forward to. He fought hard to keep his smile from dimming, but he couldn't quite douse the pain in his eyes. He was happy for her, truly, for the wonderful things that were falling into place in her life, but on the outskirts, Kurt felt stymied.

Kurt considered himself a visionary, but even if that were conceit on his part, there was no denying that he had a gift for fashion – a gift that wouldn't be appreciated in a horrid cow town like Defiance, Ohio. He had an ambition to level mountains, and a drive to succeed that could fuel a railroad, but lately, it was a dream that, day by day, seemed like it would never be realized.

He had been well on his way – they all had. Rachel, Kurt's best friend, and Finn, Kurt's stepbrother, had gotten married right out of school, and would soon be raising the baby who had laid claim to Rachel's body (by divine miracle, if you asked Rachel, which no one did any more). His father had remarried a while back, and was making the transition from farmer to rancher, with a handful of government contracts and an in on a store a few townships over.

Which meant they would be leaving, traveling further east, inching Kurt closer and closer to his goal.

That was until his father got sick – an illness of the heart and stomach that no doctor around seemed able to cure. Then their debts, bills Kurt and his stepmom didn't realize the family had, suddenly came due. In the blink of an eye, money started flying through their fingers faster than they could gather it together. Burt gave up his interest in the store. He sold most of his cattle. Then he started dividing out his land. The house would be next, and after that, not a one of them knew, except that Burt Hummel wouldn't live to see it.

Kurt scrambled to do what he could, taking odd jobs, working fields, tutoring, playing the piano at the saloon and at church on Sunday mornings, but mainly sewing - mending, making day clothes, and fashioning fancy dresses. It brought in some, but not nearly enough, especially since most of his repeat clients ran a tab. They couldn't help it. Hell hit the town in droves, not just the Hummels, and Kurt couldn't say no to anyone, even though he knew he should learn.

Sitting on the porch in his mother's rocking chair, he was working overtime, busy creating a wedding ensemble and trousseau for Sugar Motta, the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in town.

Rachel hated the girl with a passion. Sugar had everything, and what she didn't have, she bought, which included most of the things Rachel wanted – fancy clothes, a genuine ebony piano with ivory keys, tutors to instruct her in all manner of music. Rachel had a real talent for singing, the kind that didn't need to be taught, but required cultivation to reach its full potential. What Sugar did was caterwaul, even with the help of the finest music teachers in the country. Sugar Motta's voice could draw amorous strays out of hiding for miles.

Sugar tried to use her money to buy Finn, but Finn wouldn't have her. Finn loved Rachel. He was all Rachel ever needed, so in the end, she was the true victor.

That didn't cool Rachel's spleen for the spoiled girl any.

Rachel looked from the generous swing of her skirt to the pillow in Kurt's hands and sneered. She harried him mercilessly about being a traitor for designing Sugar's things, but it was an empty jest. She knew they needed the money, and with the baby coming, she worried the same as the rest of them over having a place to live.

"Oh, Kurt." She stood still a moment and watched him toil over the delicate embroidery. "What a magnificent pillow," she pouted. "It's far too pretty for her."

"The one I made for you was much prettier, if you recall," Kurt said, lifting his eyes and flashing her a smile.

"Yes, it was," Rachel gloated, grinning as she thought about the pillow resting upstairs on her bed, made of gold satin, embroidered with crystal beads and silver thread to look like the night sky, far too precious to use.

"So you see, dear sister, you come out on top again," Kurt said with a wink.

"I know, I know," she said, searching for a place on the porch to sit. She didn't dare sit on the dusty floor in her beautiful new dress that Kurt made for her, sewing it on the sneak between his other projects. He had taken pity on her when he caught her trying to squeeze into one of her old house dresses, and then bawling her eyes out when the seams along the sides tore. There were two other chairs, but they looked hard and uncomfortable. After a brief debate, she decided to stay standing. "Too bad we can't sheep shift the darned thing."

"You bite your tongue, young lady!" Kurt laughed. "That's disgusting! I am not sheep shifting imported silk."

"Well, she deserves it," Rachel remarked.

"I'm not entirely sure that the girl deserves to have her pillow filled with dung over the crime of being wealthy," Kurt argued. "Besides, she'd know it was me, and my name would be mud in this town forever." Kurt finished his row of embroidery with a locking stitch, and carefully cut the end with his sewing shears. He laid the pillow out on his lap, smoothing down the fabric so the stitches lay flat, to examine his work. It wasn't a simple pillow by any means. Rubbing his fingertips together, feeling how rough they'd become from constant work with his needle, he knew he hadn't charged half of what it was worth. But he couldn't have the Mottas balking at his price and ordering a readymade ensemble from the mercantile. Mr. Motta was a shrewd businessman. He demanded the best for his daughter, and claimed that price was no object, but it always was. Kurt suspected that's how the Mottas stayed wealthy – they found ways to get poor people to do stuff for them for next to nothing.

"Oh, Kurt," Rachel sighed, looking at it over his shoulder. She eyed the intricate swirls of color that made up the garden of roses against blush pink silk that he had sewn. "That is truly exceptional. Why I…" Rachel stopped as a flurry of game birds passed overhead. They weren't traveling thru like the crow Kurt had seen. These birds had been startled up into the sky, and suddenly, Rachel's face became pale.

"Rachel?" Kurt asked, concerned that her stricken expression might mean something was wrong with the baby. With her constant morning sickness, her vomiting as violently as she did, the baby kept everyone on edge. But in the pause left after the birds disappeared into the sky, Kurt heard it, too – the steady clomping of horse's hooves coming their way.

"Kurt!" she hissed, smacking him on the shoulder to get his attention. "It must be five o'clock!"

"Dammit!" Kurt said, gathering up his sewing in a hurry. "With the days getting long and the sun taking its sweet time setting, I completely forgot!"

Rachel's hand on his shoulder tightened as the horse's hooves became louder, coming at them at a gallop.

"Well, you might have to forget running this time," Rachel said. "I don't think you'll be able to avoid him. And it looks like he's brought a chaperone."

Kurt peered past his sister-in-law to see not one, but two horses headed their way – one large, muscular, muddy brown horse that he'd seen so often he could recognize it by the sound of its hooves alone, and the other a sleek, black stallion that he'd seen far less, but still too often for his taste. Neither horse nor rider were welcome here.

Kurt would have cursed if he wasn't five inches from Rachel's belly. Of course, he could have. He was sure the baby wouldn't have minded. It just didn't seem right to him.

"Alright," Kurt said, handing over his sewing things to Rachel as a hint for her to get herself inside. "Let's get this over with." Rachel hurried back the way she'd come, with Kurt's magnificent pillow clutched to her chest, and his sewing box in the crook of one arm, while Kurt settled into the wooden rocking chair, eying their visitors like a soldier guarding a stronghold, ready to defend it with his life, if necessary.

Both horses came to a stop at the foot of the porch, having galloped the whole way, which irritated Kurt because the horses' hooves kicked up dust something terrible, making the already dirty porch filthy with an additional layer of it. Both horseback men stared at Kurt, father and son waiting for Kurt to greet them with a biting remark, which he had a habit of doing, since neither man deserved an ounce of his respect no matter how much his family was in debt to theirs.

"Mr. Karofsky," Kurt said, addressing the elder first. "David. How abysmal it is to see you both on this otherwise pleasant evening."

Kurt only spoke this way out of earshot of his father. Burt Hummel had no respect for the Karofskys either, but he didn't believe in stirring up the shit pot and making it stink any worse than it already did.

"Kurt," David said, taking off his hat and offering Kurt a nod, which, for David Karofsky, was the height of manners and gentility. "I've come here on this fine evening to call on you, if you don't mind."

Kurt tutted disapprovingly and shook his head, completely unconcerned that beside the man he openly chided sat another man, an older man, a vastly more powerful man, glaring daggers fit to tear apart Kurt's skull. But the Karofskys already had him and his father on the ropes, so to speak. By the end of Burt Hummel's life, David and his father would probably end up owning everything the Hummels had. They had proven time and again that they weren't open to compromise. In Kurt's opinion, he didn't have much to lose.

"David Karofsky," Kurt said, "nearly every evening since we were children, you have come to my house."

"Yes, I have," David agreed.

"You used to run your horse by and shout foul names at me," Kurt continued. "You threw rocks at my window. You broke it twice. You even tried to pull me off the porch and fight me. Do you remember that?"

"I do," David said, looking appropriately ashamed, which was the only benefit Kurt would grant him.

"But now you show up every evening asking me to be yours, and every single time I say no." Kurt sighed overdramatically, hoping that if he couldn't make his point to David, then maybe it would ring with Paul, who might tell his son to stop wasting their time. After the Karofskys take over, Kurt wouldn't own anything of value anyhow. An end to this constant badgering had to be near. "Now don't you think it's best to stop ruining your evenings picking through the heather and find someone else to hang your heart on?"

David didn't answer Kurt, but his father did, wearing a wicked smile that turned Kurt's stomach to frost.

"This time," Paul said, dismounting his horse, "you might want to reconsider."

Kurt was confused, and appalled that Paul Karofsky would climb off his saddle and assume an invitation when one hadn't been offered.

But moreover, he was suddenly scared out of his wits.

* * *

An aura of doom surrounded Paul Karofsky, and Kurt knew that it wasn't likely to leave when he did.

Of all the debts the Hummel family had accrued, the bulk of the money they owed was to the Karofsky family.

Burt Hummel, like many ranchers in Defiance, didn't believe in banks. He didn't believe in accountants or lawyers or anyone outside the family managing the family's affairs. He didn't keep a competent ledger, didn't run a tab at the mercantile, and he didn't accept credit. That was set to change as Burt's business expanded. But what Burt Hummel did believe in was neighbors helping neighbors. His entire life, he and his had been first in line to lend a hand where needed – building houses, raising barns, plowing crops, sharing firewood and game and jarred goods during the disastrous Ohio winters. Burt Hummel never let a family go without if he could help it. Many people in town said that Burt Hummel was a breed apart, that the Lord didn't build men like him anymore.

And with good reason, that even a Godless heathen like Kurt understood.

The more a person gave away, the less that person had for himself, and there's just so much a person can give before they discover they have nothing left to live on.

But Burt Hummel refused to be swayed. He believed so highly in the unwritten arrangement between neighbors that when he became ill and debt collectors threatened to take his land, he didn't hesitate to take Paul Karofsky up on his offer for help. Burt hadn't asked, Paul just offered, seeming more than willing to lend his ailing neighbor a hand.

As soon as news got out that Burt Hummel was dying, and that there was no changing that fact, the Karofsky family jumped in line on the Hummels' doorstep, hands out, expecting to be paid back in full, plus interest. Since Burt didn't see his debt to the Karofskys as a priority, he focused on paying off the other bill collectors who showed up at their door.

By the time Paul and his son David came calling, Burt Hummel had no money left.

"Paul Karofsky," Burt said, not bothering to stand when the man stormed past his sentry and entered the house, "you offered me a loan, I thought, in the spirit of neighborly kindness. But the minute things became dire, you came calling. You've been calling almost every day. My situation ain't changed none today from yesterday, Paul, and I'm sorry to say, it ain't gonna."

Kurt normally wouldn't interfere at this point. He'd let his father handle things from here on out. But something about that grin on Paul Karofsky's face, the way his eyes darted from Burt Hummel, hunched over his twisted stomach, a blood-stained handkerchief pressed to his lips, to Kurt's face, as if ensuring the boy stayed where he was to hear the goings on, caused Kurt to panic. It added an urgency to these proceedings.

It made Kurt believe that he had to come up with a solution to this problem, like his life depended on it.

Kurt ran to his room and fetched his wallet out of hiding, rushing in with it before Paul could put any more pressure on his father.

"Yes," Kurt said. "Yes, it has. Mr. Motta" – Kurt dropped the name to add credence to his claim – "just paid me for the work I've done on Sugar's wedding ensemble so far." He thumbed through the coins, but lost count as he spoke, and thrust the pouch Paul's way. "And Sugar, she's talking of adding linens and curtains and…"

"Kurt…" Paul interjected, the thread of triumph in his voice making Kurt desperate.

"I know it's not the full amount, but…"

"Kurt," Paul repeated with a condescending smile, pushing the pouch of coins away, "that's not even near half."

"But it's something," Kurt said, his desperation turning to anger. "You'd be a fool not to take it."

"And you, young man, would be a fool not to accept my son's proposal."

Paul's comment to Kurt silenced the whole Hummel household. Even Burt's coughing ceased as the four of them tried to make sense of Paul's remark. Kurt, brow drawn, looked at David, standing sheepishly behind his father, his own face a combination of unreadable looks, leading Kurt to one inconceivable, nightmarish conclusion.

"No," Kurt breathed, unsteady on his feet. The world started to spin, the wallet of coins in his hand becoming heavy, too cumbersome to hold. "David," Kurt beseeched in a trembling voice, "no, I…"

Paul Karofsky tutted and shook his head, in the same mocking way Kurt had when they arrived, and the frost that had taken hold in Kurt's stomach grew.

Kurt had counted the Karofskys out, considered their constant harassing visits meaningless. His family had nothing left to give. They couldn't bleed water from a stone. Paul Karofsky knew that. He had considered bringing the law into this, but the likelihood of getting anything that way wouldn't outweigh the expense he would pay. There were other people with claims on the Hummel's assets miles ahead of his. Knowing Burt's days were numbered, they'd already begun to back down, out of respect. But Paul Karofsky wasn't bound by the kinds of social conventions that would persuade him to let Burt bow out of a debt simply because his life was nearing its end.

Paul had talked the matter over with his son, hoping that, for once, David would come up with an intelligent solution. As it turned out, the Hummels had the one thing that Paul's son wanted.

Kurt Hummel.

His son's infatuation with Kurt meant nothing to Paul really, but the idea tickled him something fierce, and this way, they wouldn't have to say they walked away with nothing.

"Burt," Paul said, locking gazes with the man who looked murderous behind sickly, pale skin and clouded eyes, "Kurt, I'm being more than generous here."

"No," Kurt repeated, his eyes fixed on David, pleading quietly that he would step in and defy his father. But why would he? It'd been no secret to anyone that David Karofsky had his sights set on Kurt. Why would he turn back now, when he was so close to getting him?

To be a decent human being? David wasn't exactly known for that.

"I'm willing to absorb the entire debt," Paul insisted, "and keep everyone else off your back, in exchange for a marriage between Kurt and David."

"No!" Carole cried, rushing in where her husband couldn't, reaching out a protective arm for her stepson to take.

"Think about it, Kurt," Paul continued, knowing that he could get to him, convince this boy despite his fire and bluster. David had told him how. "Safety. Protection. Not just for you, but for your stepmother and your sister-in-law…" Paul stepped forward, putting out a hand toward Rachel's stomach, touching lightly as she recoiled. "The new baby."

"There's no need for that," Burt said, standing, knees shaking, to pull Rachel out of Paul's reach. "We appreciate your offer, Paul, but we're not so helpless as we seem."

"Aha, aha, I see." Paul nodded. "Would that be because of _Finn?_ Is that what you're referring to?" Paul turned his back to the Hummels, thoroughly delighting in the combined gasps of the family behind him. "Gone out to California to work the new railroad? Find his fortune? Save his family?"

Finn hadn't discussed his plan to travel out West with his family. He knew everyone would object, and that Rachel and Kurt would try to talk him out of it. And they would have succeeded. So he snuck off in the early morning, while it was dark, leaving a note behind. Burt toyed with the idea of sending someone after him. He couldn't ride himself. Kurt couldn't go since he was their only source of income, and Burt couldn't afford to hire someone to make the journey. All they could do was sit at home and wait, hoping they'd hear from Finn soon, and that he would have good news.

The first letter they received told them that he was on his way, and that he was fine. He roughly outlined his plan to live off a pittance, and send his wages home to help the family out. He had decided along the way that he would send for Rachel once he got settled, and for his mother when Burt passed away. He had even planned on helping get Kurt get started on his way to New York.

The Hummel family hadn't told a soul.

Burt didn't want any of his creditors to lay claim on Finn's futures.

"What's it to you?" Burt asked, wary of what Paul might know.

"Nothing," Paul said. "Nothing at all. But just out of curiosity, when's the last time you got a message from him? He's been gone a while, hasn't he?"

Kurt had a sudden urge to go to Rachel and hold her, but he couldn't move until he heard Paul thru.

"What are you trying to say?" Burt asked. He hadn't worried about the lack of communication. It wasn't Finn's way to write letters, but he had been gone for a while. The family took for granted that everything was going alright. No news was good news.

"Just that a lot of things can happen building a railroad," Paul said with a shrug. "Lots of dangers working with dynamite, cutting through the mountain. You might want to consider sending someone out to check on him before you pin your hopes on his wages to come to your rescue."

Rachel cried out, and this time, dress or no, she slid to the floor, too stunned to speak. Kurt hurried to collect her, grabbing her by the shoulders to bring her to her feet, half-carrying her to her room.

"Come on," he whispered in her ear, "don't listen to them. Finn's fine." Kurt choked on those words. He had a feeling that Paul knew something, and that his stepbrother, whom he loved as much as anyone, definitely was _not_ fine. "We'd know if he wasn't alright, Rach."

"How?" she sobbed, step by step dragging herself to her room with Kurt's help. "How would we know?"

"You'd feel it," Kurt assured her, though the frost in his stomach gripped tight around his heart. "In your gut. You know Finn. He's indestructible. He'd defy death to come home to you and the baby. You know he would. Now, come along. Let's get you and the baby away from that bastard."

Paul watched them go, smirking when Kurt turned, fixing him with a hateful but horrified look.

"Well now," Paul said, looking at his son, eyes glued on Kurt as well, his face still blank. "I think we've said all that we came here to say." He pointed at Burt, who took a wobbly step forward with Carole holding him back. "You think on my offer," he said. "Who knows? It may not last long. My son might come to his senses and change his mind."

"Kurt will marry your son over my dead body," Burt growled at the men walking toward the door. "Do you hear me, Paul Karofsky? Over my…dead…" Burt hacked into his handkerchief before he finished, spitting up a fair amount of blood.

Paul leaned over to his son and smiled in secret.

"Well, then, David," he said, stepping through the threshold and out on to the porch, "it looks like you won't have long to wait."


	2. Chapter 2

Burt spent money the Hummel family didn't have to hire a man willing to ride out West in search of Finn, and thus started a grueling six days while the family waited for any word. Burt kicked himself over the course of those days. Burt knew Finn going to California had been a bad idea from the first, when he read the note Finn had left for Rachel and his mother. Joining with the railroad. Earn the money to save the house. Getting his wife and mother away from Defiance, and the Karofskys, and any other debtors that might come alone. Yup, Finn had plans to make it big and save the day. Such a practical plan. Such a hopeful plan. But plans like those have a tendency of failing when the stakes get too high.

If Kurt thought on those days, he wouldn't be able to tell one from the other. They didn't even seem like six separated days at all – just one long day, punctuated by periods of dark and light. He didn't think Rachel or Carole or his dad slept that whole time. Kurt definitely didn't. He tried to think positive, but it came with a hitch. He would picture himself seeing Finn ride down the road toward the house, perfectly fine, but with a hole in his chest, that grew wider and wider the closer he came, and when he finally reached the porch, he'd fall from his saddle to the floor, dead. Or he'd daydream about Finn, riding into town in the back of a fine coach, pulled by a team of horses, but then robbers would come to take all his money. Finn wouldn't give it, pleading with the robbers to see reason, but they'd shoot him in the head and take the money anyway, setting fire to the coach just before they rode out of town, as a lesson to folks not to follow.

But those were all nightmares – stupid, vile, stress-induced nightmares. There was no reason why real life had to turn out that way. No reason at all. Finn was the kindest, sweetest, most compassionate and fair minded man that Kurt had ever met. If there was a God up above who wanted good for the world he supposedly spent seven days creating, then he would want to keep Finn in it, to carry out his work.

On the seventh day of waiting, the Hummel family received word from a neighbor that a letter had arrived for them in town. It was short on the postage, or the neighbor would have delivered it. Kurt left his work immediately and went to town in haste to pick it up.

"Is that from Finn?" the woman at the post office asked when Kurt paid what was due. She smiled when she said it, and spoke matter-of-factly, but he could tell by the tone of her voice that she knew a bit what was going on. Even in a town of eight hundred people, news traveled fast.

"That's what we're hoping," Kurt said with a smile he didn't feel. He tell from her eyes when she took his money without counting it that she'd hoped he would open the letter there in the office, but he didn't. He didn't want to read it before everyone else. He couldn't bring himself to. First off, it wasn't addressed to him, and even though it was a letter about Finn – his stepbrother Finn – it would feel like invading his stepmother's privacy. Secondly, Kurt could feel it. The moment he touched the envelope, when he saw it wasn't addressed from Finn, but from Matt Rutherford, the man his dad had hired, his heart skipped about eighteen beats, and he knew.

It was confirmation of what he had suspected after Paul Karofsky's visit the week before, or the fact that neither he nor his son were anywhere to be seen since that day.

Kurt walked the letter home, wishing more than anything that he could be anywhere else, that he could be that crow flying away from here, from death – ones he'd already suffered, and the one waiting for him at home. He wished he hadn't been so gall darned eager to check the post that he volunteered to take the walk into town to get it. But none of this could he change – not the road he was on, not his station in life, nor the message written on the letter in his hands.

He felt completely helpless.

Kurt walked up the porch steps slowly, and entered a quiet house holding its breath.

"Did you open it?" Carole asked, meeting Kurt at the door and taking the envelope from Kurt's hands. With the exception of Carole, his father and Rachel were right where he left them, as if time had stopped when he walked into town and started again when he opened the front door.

"No," Kurt said, the word leaving his mouth without making a sound.

Kurt watched Carole tear into the envelope with shaking hands. It broke his heart that there was still hope in his stepmother's eyes when hope had already been extinguished in his heart. She pulled the thin letter out, dropping the envelope to the floor. Rachel came to read over her shoulder, but Kurt's father sat in his chair, his eyes on his feet.

He knew like his son knew. There was a reason why Paul came out there to plant that suspicion in their minds. There was a reason that he told them to go look after Finn. Whatever did happen, whatever Paul was referring to, Finn didn't make it.

Carole read the letter out loud for them to hear, even though Kurt wished she wouldn't.

Ms. Carole Hudson-Hummel –

I regret to inform you…

Rachel heard those four words and broke completely, collapsing to the sofa she'd been sitting on, sobbing and sobbing until it wrung her throat dry.

Carole stopped reading, not a single other word failed to pass her lips. She passed the letter to Kurt, standing closest, and started to walk away. She didn't collapse the way Rachel did. She didn't bawl. She crumbled. She walked over to the sofa and sat, putting her arms around Rachel's quaking body, trying to hold her daughter-in-law together so she could cry.

Kurt didn't want the burden of the letter. He didn't particularly care how his stepbrother died, but he felt someone needed to know. Someone had to carry the knowledge of how his life was cut short.

Kurt opened up the letter. It had been typed instead of handwritten. Matt probably had it done that way because he couldn't write. He was grateful. The neatness of the type made the words easier to read when he started to cry.

Kurt didn't read the letter word for word. He just read the ones that mattered. Finn had been trapped during a rockslide when the mountain tunnel he was working on expanding collapsed.

He wasn't the only one. Eleven other workers along with him were crushed by the falling rocks and debris.

Kurt folded the letter carefully, neatly, and put it in his pocket. Behind him he heard his stepmother hushing Rachel, and Kurt wanted to comfort her. He wanted to put his arms around her and rock her sadness away, the way Finn used to, until she quieted enough to fall asleep.

Then there was his stepmother, doing her best to stay strong while her entire world fell apart around her - her son gone, and a husband at death's door. A second husband, since she'd buried Finn's father ages ago.

And his father, trying so hard to remain stoic but with tears starting down his face, his body no longer strong enough to keep them inside.

Kurt felt crowded in, pressed upon by grief, the air too thick, the house closing around him, pushing him out through the front door and on to the porch. He sat in his mother's rocking chair, alone. The bugs hadn't started with their noises, and the birds held on to their songs. With nothing but the open meadow breeze blowing through the branches, he started to weep, and once he started, he found he couldn't stop.

* * *

Kurt had fallen asleep out on the porch, his mother's chair rocking slowly though he no longer consciously pushed it. It swayed as he shifted, looking for a comfortable spot, then falling out again since the other option was too awful to consider. He heard voices coming from the direction of the other two chairs on the porch. He wanted nothing more than to fall back to sleep, but he stayed awake with his eyes closed to listen instead.

The first voice belonged to Carole.

"There," she said. "I got her back to sleep." She sniffled as she spoke, her words shuddering as she tried to keep her voice down.

"How's the baby?" his father asked.

"Alright, I reckon," Carole answered. "Comfy inside his momma's belly. Headstrong like Rachel. Strong like…like Finn." She hiccupped over the words, and cleared her throat. "That little one will make it through this alright. How's this one been?"

Kurt assumed that this one was a reference to him.

"He's doin' okay," Burt said. "Tossin' and turnin' like his sister." Burt sighed. It dissolved into a cough, and he pounded his chest with his fist to stop it. "He and Finn, they were close. Closer than two men I've ever seen that didn't have blood between them. I don't know how he's going to handle this."

Those words skewered Kurt, and he almost gave himself away, but he bit his tongue and kept quiet.

"Do you really think…that Paul…arranged that accident?" Carole asked. "To kill Finn?" The notion, or voicing it, made Carole's voice shake harder.

"I don't know," Burt said between coughs. "He definitely has the pull. Would explain his knowing about it, wouldn't it? But would he go that far just to force our hand? It seems kind of outlandish just to arrange a marriage. What else could he gain?"

"All those other people that died," Carole moaned. "What if there's something else we're not seeing? What if he was after someone else, and Finn getting caught up in it was just some kind of happenstance?"

"I…I just don't know," Burt said, hushing his wife, soothing her as she sobbed. "I just…I just don't know."

Kurt's father heaved, then coughed so heavily it drowned out Carole's cries. Carole blew her nose in a handkerchief, and his father coughed more.

"Come on," Carole said, standing from her chair and taking her husband's hand, "let's get you out of this dusty night air. I'll come back for Kurt later on."

"It's not…it's not the dust," Burt muttered, shuffling toward the house even though he wasn't eager to be indoors. He had started to feel the way Kurt had felt – hemmed in by grief. It choked him, suffocating him faster than the fluid filling his lungs.

"I know," Carole said. "I know."

Carole's speculations about Finn's accident swirled in Kurt's mind, preventing him from going back to sleep. He opened his eyes and shook the sleep from his head. He stood from his chair, preparing to pace to porch and watch the sun set, but he began to feel antsy. He got down off the porch, deciding to stretch his legs, to clear his mind, and give himself a moment to think. He always thought better when he had a piano to play, and as the piano at The Buckhorn Saloon was silent, Kurt thought he could go in a sit a spell, maybe earn himself a five dollar coin and some tips. But he found himself turning around and walking the opposite way, down the indented road that led toward the Karofsky's ranch. Somehow, Kurt knew he would end up there. Even as he doubled-back past his house, he didn't stop to saddle up his father's horse. He didn't want to go out to the Karofsky place any faster than he had to. It felt like he was walking himself to his own execution.

The sun had only started to set when Kurt began his journey. Its light shone behind him, stretching his shadow out in front of him, filling in the creases and the divots that horses' hooves and carriage wheels had made in this stretch of dirt road. Kurt examined them as he walked, tracking them with him eyes, trying to visualize them crossing in his mind, weaving, twirling, spinning him somewhere else, giving him another choice. He counted out the steps he walked, figuring that he should know how many he's taken. He didn't know why – it just seemed like an important thing to know. When his mind drifted off and he lost count, he tried to think of anything else that would take him mind off what he was doing. He started reciting lyrics from songs he played down at the saloon, followed by the words to hymns he's apparently memorized playing for the church on Sundays. He'd run out of songs to recite and things to count by the time he saw the roof of the Karofsky ranch peeking up over the road, and he knew this was it. It was a clear view from the road to the Karofsky's porch. He saw father and son both sitting there, soaking in the last of the evening sun and passing a jug of whiskey between them. If he could see them, they could see him.

There was no turning back for him now.

"Well, well, well," Paul said as Kurt came up the road. "Isn't this an ironic turn of events?"

"Good evening, Mr. Karofsky," Kurt said, tipping his head to the man since he wore no hat on his head. "David."

"And look who's found his manners, son," Paul said, slapping David on the shoulder. "Isn't this a treat?" David blinked groggily, peering Kurt down as if he hadn't a clue who the heck was standing in front of them, and Kurt wondered how long they'd been hitting that jug before he came along. "And to what do we owe the pleasure of the proud Mr. Kurt Hummel darkening our lowly porch? Your father hasn't succumbed to his illness so soon, has he? You haven't come here with that awful news?"

Kurt sighed. This was going to be harder than he thought if Paul was determined to see Kurt eat crow, especially with David swaying in his chair, like he might lose his dinner and keel over any second. Kurt decided this might go smoothly without him there.

"David," Kurt said, "if you don't mind, I would like to talk to your father alone."

David's eyes brightened, as if the sound of Kurt's voice made him realize who was there, but then he became sullen, as he realized in the exact same moment, that Kurt had asked him to leave.

"Wait," he slurred, "Kurt? But…"

"Go on, David," Paul said, clapping his son on the shoulder and pushing him from his chair, "do as the polite man asks." David looked like he might press the issue, but his father pulled his son over to talk in his ear. "Remember what I said about not having long to wait?"

David nodded, but he didn't look happy. Kurt had walked over from his house to talk to them, something he'd never done before. Something he'd most likely never do again. David didn't want to leave the porch if Kurt was there. He knew the second his head found a pillow, he'd be out for hours. But he'd been talking to his father about the situation with the Hummels, and his father told him to have faith, that he would fix everything. David just had to be patient. So David stood from his chair, muttered a disappointed, "G'night," and lumbered off the porch in to the house.

Kurt watched David stumble sleepily inside, curious how it was that Paul looked more awake and aware than ever compared to his son. He smiled at Kurt as if he had expected him to come walking up that road the whole time, and was sitting on the porch, shooting the shit with his son, waiting for him.

"So, son," Paul said when he heard a second door open and close, his son shutting himself up in his room to sleep off the night's libations, "is there something you come here to talk about?"

Kurt swallowed hard. Paul knew. He knew it all. Even if he wasn't complicit in the accident that killed Finn, he knew it would turn out this way. Somehow, someone would die, and Kurt would end up on his porch.

"Mr. Karofsky, if I marry your son," Kurt started, not hearing the words come out of his mouth for the screaming in his head, "you'll erase my father's debt? All of it?"

Paul took a sip from his jug before he answered. This was his game. He liked to make people wait, stew in their nerves, awaiting his decisions.

"Absolutely," Paul said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief he held in his grip. "I tell you what. I'll put it in writing. Have my lawyer look it over and send it to your house in the morning. How would that be?"

Kurt wrung his hands and nodded, unable to settle his mind as his body betrayed him with that single dip of his head.

"That would be fine," Kurt said, the words hanging heavy in his chest, weighing down his heart till it didn't beat as steady anymore. "But I have one condition, and it's non-negotiable."

Paul's eyes flew open wide, and he laughed a throaty laugh. He wiped tears from his eyes with his whiskey handkerchief, shaking his head in disbelief."

"You sure do have a pair on ya, kid, the way you see fit to talk to me and mine." Paul slapped his thigh and snorted. "With the money your pa owes us, I don't think you're in any position to be making conditions, especially non-negotiable ones."

"Please, just" – Kurt's mouth felt dry, and he wished he had taken a swig himself before he left the house, to keep his nerves steady – "leave Rachel and my stepmom alone. I marry David, and that's it. Your business with my family is over. Deal?"

Paul thought about it, or pretended to. He seemed to be making a big show of this discussion. He liked seeing Burt Hummel's smart-mouthed, uppity brat sweat, even if he'd be calling him family soon.

"I'd say that's a deal," Paul said. "But I have a condition of my own. You back out on this deal, you leave my son, I don't care what the reason, and I won't come for you. I'll go after your sister-in-law, and that new baby of hers."

"Why?" Kurt asked, wringing his hands harder. "What could you possibly want with her? She has nothing to do with this."

"You represent a lot of money, Kurt," Paul said, relaxing into his chair, crossing a leg to rest his right ankle on his left knee. "Money that I'm givin' up to make my son happy. If you leave, then my son's not happy, and I'm out money." He paused to take a drink, the whiskey barely touching his lips. "But that girl, and that baby, I can sure make some money off of them. You savvy?"

"Yeah," Kurt said, and in the late summer heat, his insides turned to ice. Make money off of Rachel and her baby? Kurt could only imagine how. The fact that Paul knew filled his mouth with bile. "I savvy. I won't leave. I promise."

"That's good," Paul said with that triumphant smile that Kurt was sure could curdle milk. "You're a good boy. A reasonable boy. A smart boy. My David's going to be a happy man. I'll tell him first thing in the morning. Unless…unless you want to stop by and tell him yourself."

Kurt shook his head. He couldn't get his body to do much more.

"No," Kurt said. "You tell him. Good-night, Mr. Karofsky."

"Please, Kurt," Paul said. "Call me pa."

Kurt took a step back. Then another. He finally remembered how to move, and turned to leave.

"Hey, Kurt," Paul said, calling him to a stop. "Did you find about Finn?"

Kurt wrung his hands together so hard, he thought he heard a bone snap.

"Yes," Kurt answered in a shaky voice. "Yes, we did."

"Don't you want to know the truth about your stepbrother?"

Kurt didn't know if Mr. Karofsky was messing with him; if he actually knew something, or if this was another part of his cruel game. Kurt shook his head.

"It won't change anything," Kurt said. "Good-night."

One step, then another. He got his feet to move, and they didn't want to stop. He heard Mr. Karofsky's throaty laugh chase him down the road, and Kurt wanted to run. He could have run all the way to New York if he had a mind to, if he hadn't just sold his life to the devil and his son.

* * *

"You can't!" Rachel cried, shaking her head when Kurt tried to take her in his arms. "Why, Kurt!? Why would you do something like that!?"

"Rachel's right," Burt said between fits. "You shouldn't have done that, son."

"What other choice did we have?" Kurt countered, watching with regret as Rachel retreated to his stepmother's arms instead of his. "Finn's gone, and the Karofskys might have had a hand in it!"

"So, marrying into that family was the logical course of action?" Rachel asked bitterly.

"Frankly, yes, Rach," Kurt said. "Because if I don't, who are they gonna come after next? I'll tell you who, Rachel. You and the baby."

Rachel put protective hands over her stomach, while Carole covered the girl with her own body, as if she could block her from whatever harm Paul Karofsky might be concocting on the off chance Kurt reneges from their deal. The thought had never occurred to Rachel. It had never occurred to any of them? What sort of monster would come after a pregnant woman to recoup a debt?

The same sort of monster that would blackmail the son of a dying man into marrying against their will.

"We could have gotten them out of here," Carole offered, but she knew when she said it that there was no way.

"And send them where?" Kurt argued, needing to drive his point home. "With what money? Apparently there's no where they can go that Paul won't find them." Kurt shook his head, cursing the tears coming to his own eyes. "No, this was the only way."

"Oh, Kurt!" Carole shuddered, and Kurt took her and Rachel into his arms, hugging them tight. Hugging them like they were all he had left. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," Kurt said, patting her back gently. "But don't be. Please. This was my decision."

"Kurt!" Rachel cried, unable to think of any way to comfort her friend.

"It's okay." It was a lie, but it sounded convincing. Only his father, sitting in his chair, watching his family with mournful eyes, knew. "Really. Besides, David wants to leave Defiance, too. I know he does. He always has. Maybe I can persuade him to go East, hmmm? I could end up in New York after all." Kurt peeked past his stepmother's trembling shoulders and saw his father shake his head. Burt knew there was no hope, but Kurt decided to stay optimistic.

He had no other choice.

"My mother always did say that people show up on our doorstep for a reason," Kurt said, to Rachel and to Carole, but mostly to his father. "And David's shown up on our doorstep more times than most. Who knows? Maybe this was meant to be."

* * *

That night, the Hummel house was a house in mourning. One son gone, one on his way, and a patriarch dying. With that future lying ahead, Rachel and Carole in particular were inconsolable. Single mothers and widows didn't often do well on their own in towns like Defiance. But at least they'd have a house to live in. It was a small comfort to know they wouldn't be out turned out in the street with a new baby to care for after Burt passed on.

Carole made supper – corned beef and potatoes - but hardly anyone touched it. Rachel turned in early. Carole brain wouldn't let her, and so she started to clean. Burt retired to the porch with his son, and watched the last of the stars come out. They sat a short distance apart, Kurt in his mother's rocking chair and Burt in his, but it felt like miles.

When it came down to it, Kurt wanted to be angry with his father - for not planning things better, for being so stubborn when it came to the family's finances, but mostly for dying, which was the one thing farthest from his father's control. Knowing that that was the biggest issue behind his somber mood, Kurt chose to say nothing.

Burt wanted to tell his boy that he was proud of him for being a man and standing up for his family. He wanted to tell Kurt that he wished he could have done better by him. He wanted to say that he'd miss him, forever and always. But Burt had never been good with those kinds of words. He, too, said nothing.

The wind kicked up, swirling the dust on the porch around their feet, aggravating Burt's cough, so he decided to call it a night.

"I'll see you in the morning, son," he said as he passed Kurt by, putting a heavy hand on his son's shoulder.

"Good-night, Dad," Kurt said, putting a hand over his and giving it a squeeze.

And that's the way both men said I love you.

Kurt sat on the porch and rocked in his mother's rocking chair until his back ached, and his fingers became so cold, they curled in on themselves in search of the warmth of his palm. He sat until he heard the piano at The Buckhorn finally begin to play. He sat until there was no point in it. It wouldn't stay night because he wished it. Eventually the morning would come. He couldn't change his fate by sitting on this porch and rocking in this chair. He had to just go on, and hope for the best.

So he got up from his mother's chair and abandoned the porch, too, to ready for what he predicted would be the least restful night of his life.

Despite his confident words, his reassurances that he was fine, that things would work out for the best, Kurt lay awake in bed, waiting for the rest of his family to fall asleep. Then he turned his head into his pillow, bit down hard, and started to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Warning for rape and domestic violence.**

True to his word, Paul Karofsky had a legally binding marriage contract drawn up overnight. Kurt had thought it an ambitious notion when Paul mentioned it the evening before, so he was sure he'd have until early afternoon before he had to worry about it, but Mr. Karofsky accomplished the task miraculously fast. Kurt had suspicions that the man had had the contract prepared some time ago, with addendums made at the last minute to match Kurt's conditions. Paul had David bring it by in the morning, as promised, the younger man so effervescent and gleeful when he saw Kurt sitting on the porch - bleary-eyed and bedraggled from a night of no sleep though he was - that he seemed like a different man altogether from the David Karofsky that Kurt knew. Kurt didn't know whether that made things better, or if it disturbed him more, this ability of David's to switch demeanors at the drop of a hat.

Better to side with the devil you know. Wasn't that the way the saying went?

David came to the Hummel house by buckboard, accompanied by another gentleman. This man, in his stark, black suit; starched white shirt gleaming in the morning sunlight; and shiny black shoes, had to be Paul's lawyer. He had a certain indistinguishable and unpleasant look about him. He had hard brown eyes; a squared, well-shaven jaw; and hands that, from what Kurt guessed by his unmarked skin and his manicured nails, hadn't done more than move papers or pick up a pen in his life. The man didn't smile his entire visit, not even when Rachel came in to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Most people smiled in the presence of a pregnant lady, especially one as beautiful as Rachel, but the man gave her only a fleeting glance, and a curt hello. He let David introduce him, and spoke just a handful of times, using very few words, as if he paid for them by the letter.

Kurt read the marriage contract over twice before he signed it, though he didn't understand half of what was written. David stared at him non-stop during the exchange, smiling in an unnerving, dreamy sort of way. A couple of times Kurt swore David wanted to take his hand, but each time he returned his hand to his side, flexing fingers that itched for something to hold.

After the contract was witnessed, signed, notarized, and a copy sent to Kurt's house, Paul went ahead and dealt with the few remaining creditors Burt Hummel had left, as a show of good faith. Paul claimed it as a wedding present, but Kurt saw it for what it was - proof that the Karofskys had Kurt locked in. There was no backing out for him, not without serious consequences. But hearing those words made what Kurt was about to do suddenly too real, and he spent an hour out back of his house, bent over a hole he had dug in the earth, throwing up, hands clutching at his knees with his knuckles turned white, until his eyes burned from squeezing shut and his throat felt like it was on fire.

Kurt didn't want to live a life of revulsion. He didn't want a permanent pit dug for him for the purpose of losing his stomach day after day. He wanted to make the best out of marrying David; he honestly did. He searched exhaustively for the bright side of a life spent with a man who once threatened to pummel him into oblivion. Kurt sat down on his bed and wrote out a list of pros and cons. Under pros he listed, of course, money, safety, security, a potential future, a chance at a life outside of Defiance, and assurance that Rachel and Carole would be safe. Under cons, the only thing he could think of to write was that he didn't love David, and probably never would.

The pros definitely outweighed the cons, but that was one really big con.

Seeing as this marriage was more a matter of business than anything, Kurt expected a simple ceremony on the steps of City Hall, but Paul insisted they marry in the church. Kurt had considered explaining, as plainly and politely as he could, that he didn't believe in God. But after going over several conversations in his head and their possible outcomes, Kurt concluded that it wasn't worth the hassle. After all, he didn't care. The ceremony wouldn't mean anything to him anyway, and not believing in God might turn out to be his loophole in the end.

Kurt had always imagined planning his wedding, down to the tiniest minute detail - designing the suits and dresses, coordinating the flower colors to compliment the attendants' gowns, picking out China, silverware, and stemware that would best reflect the overall theme in conjunction with the season, venue, and time of day. He preferred the idea of a wedding at sunrise, where traditionally most people would choose sunset. He wanted his wedding to occur when the day itself started anew, not as it was coming to an end, and on the first day of spring right after the thaw, when the land was starting to wake from its winter slumber. Those were but some of the elements of his picture perfect wedding. There were literally dozens more.

Kurt was relieved when he discovered that he would have no hand in the planning of this dismal affair. He didn't object when David's father jumped the gun and hired a tailor from Columbus to come to Defiance and make their suits for the wedding. Kurt could have seen it as a slap in the face, but not having to labor over his wedding ensemble gave Kurt the opportunity to use what time he had left in Defiance to finish the jobs he'd been commissioned to do, collecting on what tabs he could in order to leave behind something for Rachel and Carole to live on until he could find work and send them something from his new home…wherever it would be.

Rachel had her new dress to wear, and Carole, knowing that Kurt was short on time, working hard, in part, for her benefit, opted to have him freshen up a frock of hers she hadn't worn too often, which made it basically new.

Kurt and David's wedding was far from an elegant ceremony, orchestrated mostly for show on the part of Paul Karofsky. Standing side by side in matching black suits at the front of the church, they looked like they were attending a funeral, not a wedding – something Kurt had always planned to avoid at his own wedding. A cruel voice in Kurt's head reminded him that this was his own wedding. But Kurt wasn't marrying the man of his dreams, so he convinced himself that this didn't count.

Kurt didn't believe in marrying young, the way Finn and Rachel had. He had pictured marrying later in life, after living in New York for several years, establishing himself as a designer, a performer, or a teacher if both those fell through. Kurt had huge dreams, but he wasn't opposed to doing an honest job and earning an average days' wage.

His mother had been an elementary school teacher up till the day she died. She took the proficiency test straight out of school and passed it at the tender age of sixteen. She had said it was the most rewarding thing she'd done aside from marrying the man of her dreams and giving birth to Kurt.

The man of Kurt's dreams would sweep him off his feet. He'd be a gentleman, worldly, well-educated, dignified and refined. He would be a bit more in the know than Kurt, and usher him into married life gently, with patience, love, and compassion.

Kurt doubted that that was the kind of evening David had planned.

In the days before the wedding, Kurt threw himself into all the work he could so he didn't have to think about his wedding night, looming in the too near future. But standing at the altar, looking into David's smiling eyes and reciting his halfhearted vows, Kurt started thinking about it. He not only thought about it, he started to picture it in his head. He imagined David undressing him, kissing him, holding him down by his wrists, naked on their bed, entering him with a refrain of grunts and moans.

The image made Kurt shake uncontrollably, every inch of him wanting to turn tail and run.

But his father's persistent cough, bouncing through the church from where he sat near the door, reminded Kurt why he was going through with this. His cough had gotten worse in the last few days, so much so that sometimes he couldn't catch his breath. When Kurt's dad was gone, there would be nobody around to take care of his stepmother and his sister-in-law.

Without this wedding, they'd have no place to live.

Without this marriage, their lives would be over.

Kurt repeated these things to himself over and over. He repeated them when he said, "I do," and David kissed him for the first time, holding Kurt's head in his hands and claiming his lips as if he'd wanted this his entire life.

Kurt repeated them when he and David danced their first dance. When they shared a slice of cheap, tasteless cake from a bakery in town Kurt didn't shop at. When they shared their first glass of champagne.

Kurt repeated them over and over and over while David loaded up his things in his buckboard, deciding that they wouldn't leave the next day like they had originally planned to give Kurt one last night with his family, but right after the reception.

He repeated them when he realized with a final tearful hug good-bye that he wouldn't be there to see the birth of Rachel's baby.

And he might not be there to sit by his father's side when the end came.

Where they would live, in what house, and everything in between had been decided by Paul and David without Kurt having any say. David's father arranged for David to live and work from a town by the name of Lima. It would get them out of Defiance, but only about 47 miles out. They wouldn't be traveling East the way Kurt had hoped, but 47 miles was a good start. Kurt figured he'd be able to work the subject of New York into a conversation or something somewhere down the line.

Kurt climbed into the front seat of the buckboard beside his husband, with Carole's kisses on his cheeks and Rachel's tears drying on his shoulder. He rode with his head facing backward so he could watch them till the very last. Paul had a chair brought out for Burt so he could see his son off, and Rachel leaned against Carole, curling into her side. Kurt watched his family wave their farewells at him. Their faces, and then their bodies, blurred into the crowd as the buckboard hit the end of Main Street. Too soon, David turned his horse down the road that would lead them out of Defiance, and away from everyone Kurt loved.

* * *

Surprisingly, the trip to Lima wasn't that long by buckboard. Kurt thought it would feel like an eternity, even if it was only 47 miles. It probably took less time with a single horse and rider, which would explain why Paul and David chose it. David wasn't much of a conversationalist, which suited Kurt fine, since he could think of nothing to talk about – not even his desire to go to New York - his mind completely consumed with thoughts of what his life would be like once they got to Lima.

What his life would be like as David's husband, in a house to themselves.

Lima wasn't much bigger than Defiance. It had a larger mercantile and an additional, much larger saloon, with its own cathouse luring the deacons away after services on Saturday night, making for interesting sermons come Sunday morning.

David stopped the buckboard briefly in town, to pick up some food and to put Kurt's name on the books at the mercantile. David looked at Kurt's signature after he wrote it and frowned.

"Kurt Hummel?" he read.

Kurt didn't think he'd be required to change his name. Now he knew. He should have asked, but David seemed extremely put off. It was strange to Kurt that David would be upset over such a small thing. His reaction made Kurt's hackles rise.

"Oh," Kurt said. "Sorry. Force of habit. I've only been married a few hours, you know. I mean, it might take you quite a while to get used to writing your name David Hummel from now on."

Kurt meant it as a joke. It was obvious that David wouldn't be changing his name, but it didn't seem to improve David's humor.

In fact, it seemed to make it worse.

"I'm kidding," Kurt pointed out, and David smiled, but not in a way that softened his features. It reminded Kurt of those fake, sarcastic smiles that Paul Karofsky wore when he stopped by the house to hound his father.

"Right," David said with a strained chuckle. "Right. That's funny." Then he laughed some more.

Kurt put a single neat line through his signature and rewrote it, this time taking care to write Kurt Karofsky.

There. He had blighted out his own identity and replaced it with a new one.

David drove them through town, giving Kurt a quick tour, which boiled down to places he was allowed to go, and places that he wasn't. The two saloons in town were apparently off-limits according to David, even though he'd been to The Buckhorn Saloon in Defiance to watch Kurt play.

The smaller of the two saloons – Holy Moses – had customers coming in in drips and drabs, most of them stumbling, unable to keep their feet. No music played from within. Kurt suspected they might not have a piano, or anyone who could play. The saloon was more of a plain, single-room shack, surrounded by stores on both sides, with one cut-out window in the front wall.

But the second saloon – The Canary Cage – was enormous, taking up nearly the entire block it had been built on. It joined to the building beside it, and Kurt saw customers weave in and out, girls from the saloon hanging on their arms. No music played at The Canary Cage, either, but that didn't seem to matter. The girls and the patrons sang along to nothing being played. Such a noise the crowd made, customers from inside numbering so many, they spilled out on to the street, and at this early hour. The sun hadn't even begun to set.

As opposed to Holy Moses, whose customers appeared to be poor ranch hands and cowboys, looking to get drunk in the fastest manner possible, the men patronizing The Canary Cage were finely dressed, wearing expensive guns on their belts and shiny spurs on their boots. Kurt wondered if those were their Sunday clothes, or did they actually ever ride a trail. There were a couple of less festooned cowboys tossed in the mix, but they had at least taken care to wear clean shirts and grease their hair back. A few had even shaved.

Standing front and center, leaning against a post, stood a man like none Kurt had ever laid eyes on before. He wore a fine suit himself, but somehow managed to look less pretentious than the company he kept. He had a devilish smile, and dark eyes he kept shaded with the brim of his hat, the resulting shadow across his face casting a mysterious aura about him. He held a dark-haired girl about the waist with one arm while she jabbered up another man beside her, but as Dave turned the buckboard down the street, the man pulled away from the girl to follow. He caught Kurt's eyes and smiled, tipping his hat hello.

Kurt, per usual, didn't wear a hat, but he inclined his head, careful to not let David notice.

Under any other circumstances, The Canary Cage and that one man might be worth whatever other suffering Lima might cause him.

The house they moved into sat miles outside town, and was one in a long list of properties owned by the Karofsky family. Owned meant seized, the way Paul had been preparing to seize Kurt's father's home, and the nausea in Kurt's stomach that wouldn't seem to go away made a powerful and unexpected resurgence.

Digging a pit in the backyard now seemed like it would become a necessity.

It wasn't an overly large house, which would make it easy for Kurt to handle without the addition of any other help. That was how Kurt assumed things would turn out. David would be traveling between Lima and Defiance, so he'd been told, which would leave Kurt to tend to the house.

Which would preclude Kurt from getting any work.

Kurt was determined to make money to send to Rachel and Carole. So he might need to ask David for an allowance?

Kurt wanted to sink into the ground and disappear thinking about that prospect.

"I hope you like it," David said, grabbing Kurt's wood chest out of the rear of the buckboard and taking it up the front porch. "This house was my mom's favorite. My pa thought you might like it best." It was an offhand comment, an opener to a conversation, possibly an attempt on David's part to show Kurt that they had been thinking about him, his likes, things that might make him comfortable, but for some reason, it sounded like an insult. Kurt wanted to argue that it was a house, and any house would do, but what would that get him? Why argue for the sake of arguing?

This wasn't exactly the best time to be ornery. As the sun began to make its way towards the horizon, Kurt had more harrowing matters to concern himself with.

They settled in quickly. The house had two floors, and was already decorated from top to bottom, with furniture in every room and wallpaper on the walls, so it seemed Kurt didn't have that to worry about either.

He had gone from being devoid of a foreseeable future to having his whole life planned out for him in a matter of weeks. It made his head spin.

David didn't seem to need Kurt's help unloading the buckboard, and he'd already said he'd tend to the horses without him, so Kurt got started on making dinner, not because he was falling into any particular role (though that had been chosen for him, too), but because he needed something to do, a habit he picked up from Carole, who immediately started cooking and cleaning whenever she got tense or nervous.

The day after his father was diagnosed, the entire house was treated to a fresh coat of white paint – porch and fence, too.

Kurt took a minute to get acquainted with the kitchen. Whosever it was, David's mother's or some poor Joe who couldn't pay his debts, everything was logically situated – dishes and cups in one cupboard, pots and pans to the right of the stove, larger casserole dishes hanging from hooks on the wall behind. There were dry goods galore in the pantry, and they had just picked up a few pounds of meat at the mercantile. He could throw together a stew, maybe even a roast, or possibly a…

The brush of a finger behind Kurt's ear shattered his thoughts. The lips that followed, kissing a trail down the back of his neck, made him shudder, an unseemly concoction of buttercream frosting and alcohol churning in his stomach and vying to show itself.

"C-can't this wait till after dinner?" Kurt asked. "It's been a long drive. You must be hungry. I know I am…"

"I don't want to wait," David whispered against his ear. "I've waited too long."

David touched Kurt on the arm lightly, and Kurt shivered, but not because he was looking forward to this. He wasn't excited about losing his virtue to David Karofsky.

David was eager to have it, though. He had already gotten one kiss from Kurt, in the church back in Defiance, and he hungered for another. Kissing Kurt wasn't like kissing anyone else. It was fierce and exhilarating, like swiping smokes from his dad's dresser in his bedroom while the man was in the kitchen one room away, or sneaking wine from the church at recess. It was thunder and lightning rattling around his head, filling his body with fire.

David knew that having sex with Kurt wouldn't be like having sex with anybody else, either. David was tired of whores. He was tired of spending money on women who faked at moaning and kept their eyes glued to the clock on the wall.

David saw Kurt's shoulders quiver, heard his voice fail him a little, and he almost couldn't contain himself.

He turned Kurt around to face him, expecting a second kiss, but Kurt couldn't give it. He was repulsed by the idea of kissing David, a man who, as a boy, made his every day a living nightmare. Who bullied him, threatened him. Part of how Kurt met Finn was because of David's constant haranguing. Finn came to his rescue on that schoolyard, time and again. When Kurt looked at David, aged some over the years, with stronger arms, thinning hair, and more girth than he had at thirteen, that's what he saw. Kurt saw the boy that was his tormentor. He saw the man who might have sat by while his father planned the death of a beloved stepbrother. He saw this person who selfishly took advantage of a desperate family's plight to get something he wanted.

That alone made Kurt furious, but it made him frightened, too. He didn't want this, and as much as he told himself that he had to, he couldn't make himself. He just couldn't. Maybe he could grow to love David Karofsky, as ludicrous as that seemed, but that day wasn't today.

"I…I'm sorry, David," Kurt said, finding the courage to step out of David's grasp and back away. "But I can't. I can't do this."

David moved forward, putting his hand on Kurt's arm where it had slipped off.

"What do you mean, you can't?" David asked, tightening his grip.

"I…I thought I could," Kurt admitted. "I thought it would be an easy thing, but it's not." Kurt felt David's fingers biting into his skin, but he was in too deep to recant. "I…I don't love you."

David's brow knit together, and his expression became grim.

"You don't love me?" David growled. Kurt watched David go from mild to livid in the space of a few words. But he didn't just seem angry, he seemed hurt and confused. "But you agreed to marry me!"

"Yes, I did," Kurt said, fighting jelly legs and chattering teeth to stay cool in the face of this bull about ready to charge. What did David's father say to him when he told his son that Kurt had agreed to this match? How did he make it sound? "I agreed because my family owed your family money. I…" Kurt didn't see how David could miss that part. How come he didn't seem to be able to put the two together?

David ran his hands through his hair and glared down at the floor, pacing, getting everything straight in his head, from the day his father told him that Kurt agreed to be his husband up until that moment. Then David stopped, nodding to himself. He turned on Kurt with tremendous speed, grabbing him around the neck with strong fingers, squeezing progressively tighter.

"That's fine," David said with a blood curling level of calm. "You don't need to love me for what I got planned."

David dragged Kurt upstairs to the bedroom. Kurt kicked. He screamed. He scratched at David's hand and wrenched to get free. David rushed into the bedroom and threw Kurt to the bed, but he hit the metal frame with his forehead and rolled onto the floor. He landed on his tailbone, a fantastic spray of pain shooting up his back, but he bit through it, scuttling on his hands and feet to get away. David moved faster. One hand tore off Kurt's shirt before Kurt could blink, popping the buttons and sending them flying, while the other hand grabbed at his belt buckle.

"No!" Kurt's voice cracked as he struggled to escape the behemoth hands ripping the clothes from his body. Kurt looked into David's eyes, begging him to look past his anger and see the person he was assaulting, but the mask of determination on David's red face was solid in its resolve. "No!" Kurt screamed, hoping there was a way to get through to him. "David! Stop! Please!"

"You're mine," David grunted, tugging Kurt's pants down to his knees, deciding that was good enough. "You married me. You belong to me. I get to do what I want to."

"No!" Kurt shoved at David's shoulders when he tried to spread Kurt's legs, locking his knees and kicking out with both feet. He wasn't particularly aiming his blows, just flailing in a panic and hoping he hit something. Kurt's struggling and shoving did nothing but upset David. The man reared back and slugged Kurt across the face, snapping his jaw from the socket for a second of blistering hot pain.

"You should really stay still," David said, planting a hand on Kurt's chest and holding him to the floor. "It'll hurt less that way."

Kurt had never been beaten in his life. His mother never made him cut a switch. His father never took a belt to him. In school, he was bullied, roughhoused a little, but Finn was always there, stepping in to make sure the situation never came to blows.

That wasn't the case for Kurt this time. He had sacrificed everything for the sake of his family, but when he needed someone most, there was no one there to save him.

On what should have been the most beautiful, most romantic night of Kurt Hummel's life, his husband violated him, forced himself on him, beat him until every inch of pale skin was bruised black and purple. David kept one hand clamped over Kurt's wrists and another over his throat as he tore into him, squeezing both tight. He stared at Kurt, into his eyes as he fucked him, and Kurt knew those eyes would be the last thing he saw when he finally passed out.

But David let up just as Kurt sucked the last breath he could into his lungs.

David's hips stuttered, and then they stilled, and Kurt prayed to a hundred different deities he'd heard of but didn't believe in that his husband was through. David stood abruptly, making the pulling out almost as painful as the pushing in. He yanked his new husband up by a fistful of hair, looked him dead in the eye, and said in a voice so menacing it would haunt Kurt for years to come, "Now, don't you think about taking yourself out of this house until those bruises heal up some, ya hear? People might think you're accident prone." David laughed, impressed by his own wit. "Might consider you a danger to yourself, and take you away to some hospital or something, and they can't do that because you belong to me."

He shook Kurt like a rag doll and threw him to the ground. There Kurt lay, too paralyzed by fear and pain to move. Kurt bit his tongue to stifle his whimpering. He didn't want to provoke David. If David turned back and raped him again, Kurt wouldn't likely survive.

David left him there, naked and bleeding on the cold, wood planks of the bedroom floor. He got himself dressed, took his sweet time, too, choosing a new shirt and a pair of clean pants. He whistled as he dressed, slicking back his hair, even splashing on a handful of aftershave. He pulled on his boots, and walked out the house like nothing had happened. He saddled his horse, climbed on up, and rode off to the nearest saloon to drink himself stupid.

Kurt listened to him go, to the horse galloping away, the pounding of its hooves into the dirt, a sound that Kurt had known for a good portion of his life. It was a sound he'd never forget, especially now. He knew that sound would become his saving grace. It would warn him when his husband was coming home.

Kurt didn't move. He didn't dare breathe. His eyes swelled so he couldn't cry. He fell out of consciousness the same way a shot quail falls out of the sky – quickly and completely.

David Karofsky wasn't much of a pistoleer. He had a legendary short fuse, was real easy to temper. He lacked the patience to develop the nuance and the skill that came with identifying a target, taking aim, knowing where his shot would land before he even pulled the trigger on the gun. His father tried and tried to teach him from a young age, well before most kids ever pick up a gun, but anything David couldn't master in under an hour wasn't worth his time.

He was a huge child, and he grew into a mountain of a man. He became quite the pugilist, but David could win most fights just by showing up, and his Colt rarely had the occasion to leave his belt. He was heavy handed, and on top of that, he liked his drink.

He liked his drink a lot.

All in all, David Karofsky was a crap shot, but he was a virtuoso when it came to delivering a beating.

The one he gave to Kurt on their wedding night was a doozy, and it was only the beginning.

When Kurt came to the following morning, he was a plug of rage, sadness, and humiliation. He didn't stand up. He didn't know whether he could. He didn't try. He felt something in his leg, a twinge of pain in his knee and ankle that he figured would keep him from putting weight on it. He lay still, wondering if a human being could possibly will themselves to die. He stared at the floor of his new home and realized that he was nothing. He was less than nothing. The life he had wasn't even a shadow of the life he had always dreamed of. It was barely a shadow of the life he had in Defiance.

Kurt had talked about his dreams so often that it had become an echo, following him everywhere he went, staying behind long after he left a place. He thought he was made of quality stuff – the kind of talent that would precede him, a reputation that would pave the way for him in life.

But none of that mattered. Not anymore. The truth – the one that he didn't want to see - was that he was Mr. Kurt Karofsky now, and he was worth less than the dirt that covered his boots.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _Mention of beatings and bruises._

Kurt's days bled until they ran together, one into the next.

He had been married to David a week, then a month, then two months, but the time that passed meant nothing to him. There was nothing for him in Lima, nothing for him to look forward to, and everything he left behind him was gone, washed away like the dirt off his father's porch during the autumn rain. Only this downpour hadn't made him clean; it had weathered him thin, eroding him away until there was so little left, his friends and family back in Defiance probably wouldn't recognize him, even if he wore a sign.

Kurt hadn't heard any word from his stepmother or from Rachel, not a letter, not a telegram since he'd been in Lima. He knew it wasn't because they hadn't written. Kurt was certain they had. But anything that came for him would be denied by David at the post office and returned, or shredded by him on sight.

Kurt was probably an orphan by now. If not, that would be a miracle.

Kurt had tried to send a letter to Carole. He didn't detail everything that had happened between him and David, or the things that continued to happen, but he needed some advice. Carole's first husband was a regimental man with a temper, and when he was relieved of duty, he hit the bottle pretty hard. But the man didn't lay a hand on her, and Kurt wanted to know why. How did Carole's husband drink, yet manage to keep his hands to himself? Was there something that Kurt was missing? He hoped Carole knew.

Kurt had managed to scrounge together a few pennies for the postage. He had planned to send it out on his next trip to town, but there wasn't another trip to town for him, not for a long while. When he finally did get the chance to send it, it found its way back to the post office marked 'undeliverable as addressed'.

David was the one who picked it up. He brought it home and tossed it in Kurt's face, the envelope ripped open, the letter inside read. Then he let Kurt know in no uncertain terms that he wouldn't be sending another letter out again.

Kurt started to hate his existence. Life had been difficult in Defiance, but he never once wished for it to be over. Here in Lima, he did, every single day. The worst part was, he'd done it to himself, and with one signature.

He had become the thing that he feared.

Defeated.

Invisible.

Forfeit.

He'd seen this same thing happen in other arranged marriages, mostly with women, sold off by their families, much for the same reason. They lost themselves, their identities erased. They existed to cook and clean and bear children; to neither be seen nor heard.

With the exception of bearing children, that was the definition of Kurt's life. He had nothing. Not a thing to his name. Not a cent. Not a single belonging that he had brought with him. David, in his spite, took it all, and left Kurt with shreds of clothing – none of his well-crafted and creative outfits, none of the tools he needed to make more. They had been stowed in his mother's trunk, which disappeared after their wedding night. In its place, Kurt was given two pairs of pants, some shirts, and a hand-me-down hat, a size too big, that he could use to cover the bruises on his face, should he ever be allowed to go to town to do the shopping.

David worked for his father, in the business of moving herds or grain or whatever else made its way to the Karofsky family stores. Sometimes he left for the trail and was gone for days. Other nights, he drank himself to sleep and passed out in their room, not waking again till almost noon the next day. In this, David ran like clockwork, and Kurt used David's moods to develop a schedule – one that gave him the chance to escape life for a while, if only inside his own head.

Kurt spent his nights after his husband was done with him lying on the living room floor. He started out sitting in a chair, but found he was in too much pain to sit upright, so he retreated to the floor where the cool wood could soothe the ache in his body. At first, he would lay there and dwell on the hell his life had become, and how he might work to change it. Maybe he could appeal to David. Maybe he could be more giving. Maybe he could give himself up completely, do whatever it took to make this a happy home – apologize, grovel, kowtow, willingly give his body over for sex - even if it killed him inside.

Once Kurt realized that none of that was a possibility, he simply lay on the floor and listened to the night speak, to the wind and the birds, and the animals scurrying here and there, beneath the house, searching for shelter. If he could, he would tell them to go a thousand miles away from here. This place, it wasn't safe like Paul Karofsky said it would be.

It wasn't a home.

It was a few days after their wedding, while Kurt was recovering, that he started to hear the music.

He had a minor concussion. He'd only had one other in his life, from falling out of one of his mother's apple trees, but he recognized it when it came around again. Luckily, David left right after for a few days. He'd only gone into town that time, to celebrate his _marriage_ , but it gave Kurt the opportunity he needed to rest. Kurt couldn't stand straight, and he threw up whenever he tried to walk, so David didn't stress on him to cook or clean. Kurt thought it might be out of guilt. Or maybe he knew that if he forced him, he might succeed in killing him. Whatever the reason, he left Kurt relatively be.

He still came for him at night. That didn't change.

Those first few days, Kurt swore the music was in his head – memories from back home, when he could hear the piano at the saloon in town from his front porch on the nights he didn't play, or Sugar Motta's fine instrument, finding its way across the meadow to his ears, carried on the evening breeze. This piano sounded much louder, poorly played, and way off-key, which led Kurt to believe that it was all in his head, his fuzzy mind playing tricks on him.

His first trips to town, he went to do the shopping. David brought home most of their goods from his travels between Defiance, Lima, or wherever he needed to go. But there were times when Kurt going to town was a necessity. David ran a tab at _Sylvester's Sundries_ (for food, David warned Kurt, and essentials, which usually meant rye – nothing else). Sue Sylvester ran the establishment. Lima's most infamous spinster, she was a tall, sharp, intimidating woman, with an unkind look about her, and a skeptical stare for everyone who walked through her door. She didn't seem to like anyone much, and insulted every customer who came in, even if they were buying out half the store and paying in cash. But Sue ran one of the largest general stores that end of Ohio, and if she didn't carry something, she could definitely get it, even if it meant traveling through Indian Territory. No one knew how she did it, and she didn't divulge. She said once that she and the Shawnee had an _understanding_ , and left it at that.

Rumor had it she kept a genuine Shawnee scalp underneath the counter of her store, which she had won in hand-to-hand combat with a scout outside of Lima, but no one ever had the nerve to check.

Walking through town to get to the mercantile, Kurt heard the music play. It was louder here, still off-key, but it came with chatter and laughter, and a thread of joy he remembered hearing in Defiance. It was something he never imagined he would miss so much. Kurt stood on the steps of the mercantile and listened, trying to narrow down its origin, but there was no denying that the music could only be coming from The Canary Cage. As unskillful as the pianist was, music was still music. Music had been one of Kurt's first loves, and this music lured him towards the saloon's swinging doors.

Looking inside, the place was gigantic, more so than it appeared from the street. It wasn't a dance hall, a gambling hall, or a drinking hall. It was all three. Through the doors, Kurt saw past the bar to his left, over the card tables in front of him, to the stage on the opposite side – a golden gilded stage with what looked to be a real velvet curtain covering it. The piano sat off to the corner, the elderly pianist banging on the keys.

Kurt felt thankful that, with his off-key playing, he made no effort to sing.

"In or out?"

Kurt heard the voice behind him, but it took a moment for him to realize he was being addressed.

"I'm sorry," Kurt said. "What?" Kurt turned to face the owner of the voice, coming face to face with a man his height, with coffee-brown hair, and the most fascinating green eyes Kurt had ever seen. Kurt's father had green eyes, but they were subtle like moss, and had grown clouded with sickness and age. These green eyes were stunning. Kurt's mouth must have dropped a little because the man ducked his head and laughed, a dot of pink coloring his cheeks.

"In or out?" the man repeated, pointing to the door. "I would recommend picking one, because Blaine, he don't take too kindly to stragglers hovering outside his door, gummin' up the walkway.

Kurt shook his head, trying to pay attention to the man's words with those eyes examining his face, the man's shy smile fading as he traced the bruises splitting Kurt's lip, the indigo ringing his eyes. Kurt would have said _out_ and excused himself, but he didn't know anyone in town by name besides the owner of the mercantile. He felt he should know as many people as possible, just in case.

Kurt had already met the doctor, but the man didn't work in town.

"Blaine?" Kurt asked. "Who's Blaine?"

"Blaine Anderson," the man said, pointing past the door and up towards the balcony. "He owns the saloon."

Kurt's eyes followed the man's direction, and what Kurt saw made his jaw drop even farther. There he was, Kurt's mysterious man from his first trip through town, wearing a similar suit, sitting in a chair that overlooked the main hall, like a king on his throne.

"Blaine Anderson," Kurt repeated, trying out the man's name on his tongue, letting it jounce around in his head, get embedded in the cracks and the crevices so David couldn't knock it loose.

"Yup," the man said, dodging to one side to avoid the door opening, the patron pushing past him dead and determined to be on his way whether the man talking to Kurt moved out of his path or not. "I wouldn't let him see you hanging around out here if I was you."

Kurt nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr…."

The man smiled wide and offered Kurt his hand.

"Smythe," he said. "Sebastian Smythe. I tend bar here. So if you ever want a drink or a hot meal…"

"I know who to talk to," Kurt said, giving the man a real smile. It pulled his lips up and made the split in the top one sting, but that didn't bother him.

"Good," Sebastian said, the dots of pink returning to his cheeks. "That's good. Well, I'd better head inside. I hope I get to see you again, Mr…."

"Hummel." The slip didn't register when the name left his mouth, but Kurt didn't want to correct it. In his heart, he wasn't a Karofsky, and if this man ever got the chance to know him, then he'd understand why. "Kurt Hummel."

"Kurt Hummel." Sebastian repeated it the same way Kurt had done with the name _Blaine Anderson_ , like he didn't want anything to knock it loose. "Well, I'll be seein' ya, Kurt Hummel. And remember…"

"Stay out of sight," Kurt said. "Got it."

Kurt watched Sebastian, hesitant to go, make his way through the swinging doors and the crowd inside to the bar. He looked from Sebastian, up to Blaine Anderson, back down to Sebastian, and sighed.

 _In another lifetime, huh?_ he thought to himself, taking Sebastian's advice and leaving before he got caught.

There was something about The Canary Cage, something Kurt couldn't get out of his head. It was glorious. It was lively. It was how he pictured New York City, with the people and the music and the laughter, all rolled together in this desolate shithole called Lima. For the first time since he came there, Kurt felt something akin to happiness flare in his chest, melting away the hate that David Karofsky had beaten into him.

Kurt didn't want it to go away.

He needed it. He couldn't live without it.

It was something he might be willing to die to keep.

And even though he knew that David might hide the skin clean off his bones, Kurt had to go back for more of it.

Kurt wasn't brave enough to try and go on nights when David was in the house, but the next time David left for Defiance, moving another herd for his father, Kurt got dressed and headed into town. Kurt ran to The Canary Cage for shelter, to lose himself in the bawdy music, to let the saloon fill him with its energy and its laughter.

To bring back the old Kurt, beaten into hiding, or make him into something new.

Kurt spent whole nights at The Canary Cage, standing outside its doors. He hid in the angular shadows and peeked in, skittering out of the way when customers came in and out. He found a spot where he could stand and gaze up at the balcony, and see _him_.

Blaine dressed in some of the finest clothes Kurt had ever seen a man wear. His taste was impeccable, and from Kurt, that was saying something. Blaine wore his gun belt low on his hips to keep his Colt in plain view beneath his jacket - a reminder to everyone who came in who laid down the law inside The Canary Cage. Kurt had seen many men glance at it, some even coveted it, but for the times Kurt came, he hadn't yet seen anyone give Blaine a reason to use it.

Blaine usually sat in a velvet high-back chair, with a girl on one leg and a shot glass in his hand, but he rarely drank. It was a prop, something to put men at ease, or throw them off their guards.

Blaine Anderson was like a character straight out of the pages of a dime novel. He was smooth, suave, and one of the fastest draws in this part of Ohio (from what Kurt had heard), but he didn't need to prove himself. Fights rarely broke out in his saloon, and when they did, Blaine didn't even need to handle them himself. The rowdy men that customers didn't toss out on their own, Blaine's hired guns handled.

It was one of the reasons Kurt felt so safe here, even if he didn't venture inside.

Kurt thought no one could see him. He kept low, quiet, and out of sight. He didn't get in the way of anyone coming up the steps. Customers ignored him as they passed by. But unbeknownst to him, he had captured someone's attention.

Someone who had gotten annoyed at his loitering.

Kurt knew the names of most of the girls who worked Blaine's saloon, since they were shouted by the men throughout the gambling hall. Some girls stuck to the cathouse, and Kurt didn't know them as well. But he knew Kitty Wilde, knew her bouncy blonde pigtail of sausage-sized curls; knew her petite, snowy white hands; and her flashing blue eyes. So Kurt knew when he saw delicate fingers curl over his shoulder and shove him from behind, thrusting him through the doors and into view, it was Kitty doing the shoving.

"Now who do we have here?" she asked. Santana – a feisty brunette, one of the more popular girls with the regulars - followed, grabbing Kurt by the collar and pulling him the rest of the way in. Kurt twisted out of her grasp, more worried about the bruises below his collar showing than of getting hurt by this woman who happened to be deceptively strong.

"I'm not looking for trouble," Kurt said when he saw eyes turn their way – eyes belonging to men with guns on their belts when Kurt had none. He never saw the need, and besides, David would never let him keep one if he had.

"You know, this ain't no peep show," Santana said. "If you wanna look, you gotta come inside and buy a drink."

"I'm sorry," Kurt said, hurrying to re-button his collar. With his eyes on his hands, he didn't see the look that flashed from one girl to the other as he adjusted his shirt. "I don't drink."

"Then you could at least give us a coin for the peek." Kitty put her hand out, grabbing the air to stress her meaning.

"Oh…all right," Kurt said, reaching into his pocket, hoping that he had something in these pants. The way David rifled through his belongings every night, Kurt was surprised when he found he had any money left. Another blonde girl walked up. Kurt saw her coming over the top of his eyes, and he knew her right away. Her name was Brittany, and if Kurt had a favorite here amongst the girls of The Canary Cage, it would have to be her.

Brittany caught sight of something when Kurt lowered his head, and put curious fingers to his scalp, the skin there having more abrasions from being slammed to the floor than he had hair.

"Who you been tussling with?" she asked, innocently intrigued by the various marks and scars he'd thought he hid better. "Robbers? Indians? Rustlers?" Many of Brittany's customers learned early that she might give them a knockdown on the price of a poke if they had a decent story to tell. She especially favored stories involving Indians, but she liked it when the Indians won, not the cowboys.

"If it were Indians, he wouldn't have a scalp, moron," Kitty said, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Take care who you're calling moron, _pendeja_ ," Santana scolded, while an unimpressed Kitty rolled her eyes. "We'll see if your scalp's not on too tight." She grabbed one of Kitty's thick curls and yanked, pulling her head to one side.

"Ow!" Kitty howled, making a lunge for Santana's hair where it spilled over her shoulders. "You filthy little Mexican bi-"

"It's nobody, alright?" Kurt said, stepping away from the melee. "I…I'll pay you something for the nights I came. And don't worry. You won't see me anymore."

"No," Brittany said, "wait." She reached out and grabbed Kurt's wrist, letting go when he hissed. She looked down at his arm, exposed where the sleeve rode up about an inch, exposing faded bruises underneath. "I…I know those marks." Brittany made a gesture to her wrists, and then her neck when Kurt's fidgeting unwittingly revealed more. "Those bruises. Tana."

"Yeah," Santana said, nodding sadly. "I get it." She tapped Kurt's shoulder to get his attention, which he was purposefully denying, attempting to hide from the conversation that was going on fine without him. "So which is it, lilac? Father or husband?"

Kurt opened his mouth, ready to come out with a lie. He had one practiced, and had used it several times before. That was before he discovered that nobody really cared whether he was being beaten or not. They just wanted in on the gossip. But these girls weren't asking for a lie like everyone else. They wanted to know the truth.

"Husband," he admitted quietly.

Santana nodded.

"Is he here right now?" Santana asked, sweeping her eyes around the room.

"No," Kurt said. "He goes away sometimes. Rides the trail for about a week, moving herds and stock and whatnot. He wouldn't approve of me being here…or out of the house in general."

"Well, you're more than welcome to stay here with us," Brittany offered.

"Brittany," Kitty hissed. "What about…"

"Oh, he don't have to worry about Blaine none. Blaine's a big puppy," Brittany said. "He won't say nothin' once we tell him..."

"No!" Kurt cried. If there was anyone Kurt didn't want involved in his marital woes, it was Blaine Anderson, for Christ's sake! "No, please. Don't tell him. I have trouble enough with the people in this town as is. I don't need him spreading my story around."

"He wouldn't do that," Brittany said, saddened that Kurt would think it. "Maybe he could help you."

Kurt shook his head. It sounded nice, though. Kind of like déjà vu – Finn running to his rescue when David lifted him up by his arms, ready to toss him to the ground.

"I don't know that there's any way he could help me," Kurt said, "but thank you. All of you. For wanting to try."

It took Blaine a week to notice the newest customer sitting among the usual rabble in the gambling room, and once he did, he wondered how he hadn't noticed him before. He wasn't one of his regulars. He didn't wear a gun belt, so he wasn't a slinger, and he was too clean to be a cowboy. He sat with his back straight, his ankles crossed, and his eyes down in a passive way – like he wanted to be ignored, and not just to keep the peace.

No, this man looked like he wanted to disappear.

Blaine watched out for him every night. After he saw him the once, he wasn't difficult to locate in a crowd. He seemed familiar, but Blaine couldn't place how. Blaine saw hundreds of men a night - some from town, some passing through - so his memory got a bit hazy after a while. But Blaine thought for sure he remember a man like him. He had an elegance about him, something rare in a throughway town like Lima. He didn't limp around bowlegged, so he didn't make his living on a horse. That meant he must be from somewhere nearby, close enough to walk. It was the clothing that kind of threw him – too baggy and ill-fitting for a man who looked like he could be at home at the theater, or a fancy restaurant.

If not for the downcast eyes.

The man intrigued Blaine, and in his business, that didn't happen a lot. People were people were people. As long as they spent money and didn't cause a ruckus, he didn't make a point to remember one from the other.

But intrigue turned into irritation when Blaine noticed how his girls doted on him (not in any way that would make Blaine money), how Sebastian stopped cleaning the glasses or wiping down the bar from time to time to talk with him, and how, after a full hour of sitting, he didn't once have a glass of anything stronger than water put in front of him, and Blaine didn't charge for water.

He was beginning to think that he should start.

Blaine got up from his seat in the balcony and started toward the main floor, eager to find out this man's story, and tell him to put up or get out.

Brittany saw Blaine first. Like most people who frequented The Canary Cage, she recognized the _clunk-chink…clunk-chink…clunk-chink_ of Blaine's boots as he strode across the planks overhead. She bounced up from the lap where she sat, overseeing a game of Faro, and rushed to cut him off when she saw where he was headed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Brittany said, directing a dancing Kitty Kurt's way with a flick of her wrist, and racing to intercept Blaine as he came down the stairs. "Hey, Blaine." She spread herself across the bottom step, elbow leaning on the wall to support her head, foot up on the railing, blocking his path into the gambling hall. "What d'ya know?"

Blaine looked at the girl stretched out in his way, and smirked.

"Hey now, Britt," he replied. "Not much. But I wanna know, who's the new seat warmer?"

Brittany's eyes darted around, intentionally not landing on the man she knew Blaine meant.

"Who?" Brittany asked.

Blaine raised a brow, resting his hand on her foot propped up on the railing and drumming his fingers impatiently across the toe.

"You know who, Britt."

"Uh…" Brittany played dumb and stalled longer, shooting a slow glance at Kurt, then back to Blaine.

"Oh him?" - Brittany jerked a thumb over her shoulder - "That's Kurt. He's just a friend," Brittany answered in a guarded voice. She tossed a second glance over her shoulder, watching as Kitty stood guard. "He likes to listen to the music. He does no harm, keeps Sebastian company. I told him he could sit a spell."

"Yeah, he certainly does sit," Blaine said, "and he sure likes to listen, but he don't order nothin'. I'm sorry, Brittany, but he's gonna have to go."

"No!" Brittany almost leapt out of her skin. She put her hands up to stop Blaine when he attempted to push her leg off the railing and pass through. "Don't make him go, Blaine. Let him stay. Please?"

Blaine looked the girl over, the worry on her face confusing him some. Brittany had Santana, and regardless of her line of work and her easygoing nature, she didn't often take a shine to the men she entertained. She didn't get attached to customers, which Blaine appreciated. So this concern over some average Joe who hadn't gotten a poke off her was definitely new.

The fact that Santana, possessive as she was, would allow it, made it doubly so.

"I'm sorry, Britt." Blaine pushed, hoping to wheedle the story out of her. "He's occupying a seat that's meant for paying customers."

"Then I'll pay," Brittany pleaded. "The price of one whiskey for every night he come in." Blaine narrowed his eyes at her, and she withered. "Two!" she said, holding two fingers up for emphasis. " _Two_ whiskeys for every night he come."

"You're paying me to let him sit a stool?" Blaine asked. He could have laughed. "Who is this man to you, Brittany? Long lost brother or sumthin'?"

"I can't…I can't tell you," Brittany said.

Blaine crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her sternly.

"Britt…"

"I can't, Blaine," she said, becoming more distressed. "I promised him I wouldn't."

Blaine sighed. "Well, if you can't tell me…"

" _Blaine_ ," she whined through her teeth, "I can't tell because he's…he's one of us."

"He's a saloon girl?" Blaine said with a chuckle. "I guess he's got the legs for it," he teased. Most times Blaine didn't understand a lot that came out of Brittany's mouth, but she was even-tempered, good-hearted, and fun as heckfire to have around. What she said, though, downright didn't make sense. But he had to take her at her word because, incomprehensible or not, Brittany wasn't prone to lying. It wasn't in her nature.

"No, he's not a _saloon girl_." Santana made her way over from a table close by, not appreciating the snarky tone of Blaine's laugh. "She means he's abused. Unwanted. Lonely."

"Abused?" Blaine pounced at that, stealing a glance at this customer. He found the man's eyes – wide, scared eyes – trained his way. Kitty spoke to him softly, her hands holding his arms to keep him from bolting. His face was covered in so many healing bruises, Blaine could hardly see the skin underneath. His lips were split in multiple places, and his neck – dear God in heaven, his neck was covered in intertwining marks, some going yellow with purple ones above them, each one looking like a finger to Blaine's eyes. This man and Blaine's gaze locked, and Blaine couldn't look away. Those blue eyes, brimming with intelligence alongside fear, seemed to beg Blaine for a hundred things. Blaine wished he knew what some of them were, so he could give them to him. "Who's abusing him?"

Brittany shook her head, on the verge of tears.

"I've told you too much Blaine," Brittany said. "I can't…"

"His husband, alright?" Santana cut in, rescuing her girl from Blaine's unnecessary interrogation. Brittany glared sorrowful eyes at Santana, but Santana rolled hers – not as scornfully as she would with anyone else, but still. "I didn't make him no promises," she said. "Besides, if he's gonna be hiding out here, then Blaine should know. It's his place. What if his husband comes 'round looking for him?"

Santana's reasoning soothed Brittany, and she didn't look as harried.

Blaine looked back at the man, rising from his stool with both Kitty and Sebastian trying to persuade him to stay. But he broke free with an apologetic shake of his head and a sad smile, and headed through the crowd, out the swinging doors.

"Well," Blaine said, turning back to Brittany, pinching her chin fondly between his thumb and forefinger, "if you like him so much, and you're willing to vouch for him, he can stay."

"He can?" Brittany asked, bouncing in her shoes and clapping her hands beneath her chin.

"Yup," Blaine said. "But do me a favor. When he comes in next, send him up to my table." Blaine looked over toward the doors, hoping the man had changed his mind, but he was gone. "I think I'd like a word with him. See if there's something I can do to help."

"Oh, thank you, Blaine!" Brittany chirped. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

Blaine gave the giddy girl a wink, and climbed back up the stairs to his balcony, his mind filled with thoughts of that pale man, scared as a rabbit, walking home in the dark, on his way to greet his husband, and whatever punishment that bastard had in mind for him.

Blaine didn't have a mind to come betwixt a married couple, but this wasn't right by any stretch. This wasn't a marriage; it was abuse, plain and simple. That man's frightened eyes, the cuts in his lips, his eyes blackened at least nine times over…there had to be a way to stop it. Maybe not the law way. They hadn't had a sheriff in town more than a season. But there had to be something Blaine could do, and not just for Brittany's sake.

When that man came back, Blaine would sit him down, and they would hash this out between them. They would come up with a solution to his problem. Blaine didn't know how, but they'd cross that bridge when they got to it.

But the next night, David returned home early, and took a week's worth of frustrations out on his husband. Problems over money, his horse slipping a shoe, a missing shipment of goods, translated into punches that nearly dislocated Kurt's jaw.

In town, at The Canary Cage, Blaine Anderson left orders to escort Brittany's pet up when he came, but that otherwise, he wanted time alone. He set up his table special for his guest. He had Sebastian send up a plate of appetizers. He uncorked a bottle of red wine. He even put out a tablecloth. Blaine waited the evening in the balcony for the favorite customer of his girls to return, but the man with too many bruises and sad, blues eyes never did come.


	5. Chapter 5

It wouldn't be till four days later that Blaine would see Kurt again, walking into town. He wore a hat on his head that was several sizes too large, pulled as low over his eyes as possible without it falling in his face altogether. His clothes were too big for him. They would have hung off if not for his belt, which had to have new holes drilled to cinch it tight, and then the end wrapped several times to keep it from flapping against his thigh. He walked with a limp, favoring his right knee, his foot turned out so he rolled on the instep and his heel. He looked like a clown Blaine had seen at a circus once when he was younger. That man wore a costume that was huge around the middle. He had a hat so large he could pull the brim down to his chin, and giant shoes that forced his toes out at angles, making him waddle when he walked.

Kurt, dressed in a similar get-up the way he was, might have been laughable, if Blaine didn't know why.

It looked as though Kurt was trying to walk with his back straight and his head high, but he was having difficulty. He kept his arms wrapped around his waist, hugging himself around the middle, which forced his shoulders to hunch. Blaine saw his ankle twist, saw Kurt hiss, and whistled between his teeth.

He hoped Kurt's asshole husband hadn't done any internal damage. A blow to the kidneys or the liver, or a too-hard blow to the stomach might not heal right. Blaine had seen a man in a drunken fistfight die after a blow to the stomach ruptured something inside. The man didn't know he'd been injured so bad, and drank plenty more before it hit him. It wasn't a pleasant death neither – slow and painful. A doctor'd been called, but he couldn't do nothing for him, and he couldn't give him anything for the pain.

It took him a while to die.

After Kurt didn't show that first night, Blaine figured he might not show again for a while. Blaine spent the three days since talking up Brittany about this stranger.

Except he wasn't a stranger no more. Not to Blaine's girls, and not to Blaine. His name was Kurt, and even though Blaine had yet to exchange a word with him, he felt like somewhat of an expert on him now.

Brittany's time spent away from the gambling hall floor made her regulars furious. They scowled up at the balcony, but stayed tightlipped about it. She was spending her evenings with Blaine, and not a one of them was willing to walk up to his balcony and make it an issue.

As for Brittany, she didn't mind losing out on a coin here and there to spend the evening talking about Kurt. Blaine made sure to fill her with hot fudge sundaes for her trouble, which truly made this time alone with Blaine a treat.

There had been an instant connection between her and Kurt. Something about him touched her, and she had become awful protective of him. It reminded Blaine of this big, ugly cat she'd adopted once. Horrid creature, hissed at everything, scratched and bit anyone who looked at the darn thing sideways, except for her. Many, many times, when it went on the prowl hunting for mice and got underfoot, or it took a swipe at him, Blaine was tempted to drown the thing while Brittany slept, but he couldn't do that to her.

Eventually, the half-crazed beast ran out into the street and got kicked by a horse. Brittany searched the saloon for it for days, even climbing into places that cat would not have had the ability or the gumption to get to. She cried over not being able to find the thing, and wondered if she did something to force it away. Tina, one of Blaine's other girls, had made a comment that maybe the thing had died, and that she was glad because it had torn up her ankle and ripped her best stockings. Poor Brittany was heart broke. Considering Brittany's history, the life she had before coming to Blaine's, he didn't have the heart to break the news. He told her that big old cats like that were notorious adventurers, and that it would come back to her one of these days, when it was done with its sightseeing.

Blaine's been keeping an eye out for a replacement disgusting creature ever since.

Brittany hadn't wanted to tell Blaine Kurt's story without Kurt's permission, but Blaine swore to her that he would do whatever he had in his power to protect the man, so she relented, recounting for her boss all she knew.

She told Blaine about David.

She told him about the repeated beatings and the rapes.

She told him about Kurt's stepbrother, Finn, and how he died during a suspicious cave-in.

She told him about Kurt's stepmother, his sister-in-law, her baby, and the threat Paul Karofsky had made to their lives.

She told him about Kurt's dreams of going to New York and being a designer, and how much he had loved sewing and making clothes before David had taken all his things.

She told him about Kurt's father, probably long dead by now, though Kurt didn't know for sure.

Every night, Brittany told Blaine a new story, like Scheherazade weaving her many tales. Blaine was amazed at how deeply Kurt had taken her into his confidence, and he felt a tad guilty for convincing her to break it the way he did. But the more Blaine learned, the more incensed he became. Blaine had known men who beat their spouses. Hell, he'd known women who beat their spouses, too. They'd get into an argument, and one would take a belt to the other. Blaine didn't approve of it, but it was the way of things out here. But in the case of Kurt and his husband, the deck was stacked uneven.

Kurt was a fighter. Blaine could tell by looking at him. The way he sat with his back ramrod straight. Kurt was strong. No man would have to hold another man's neck in a way that made the marks he saw on Kurt if Kurt wasn't a fighter. But according to Brittany's account of David's build (as described to her by Kurt), David Karofsky was massive – broad shouldered and muscular, even if he did have a gut from imbibing too much rye. The man was part-cowboy. He rode the trail. He moved herds. He stocked his father's store. He wasn't afeared of getting dirty and working with his hands.

Kurt, as strong as he was, could in no way be a match, not if most of his time had been spent playing the piano and sewing. That was simply a matter of nature.

Blaine hoped Kurt would return to The Canary Cage soon. The more Blaine held on to the knowledge of Kurt's situation, the more he thought on it, and the more he thought on it, the more he longed to change it. He had considered asking around, finding out where they lived, and riding out there to have a discussion with David, but Blaine didn't want to overstep his bounds.

He didn't want to break a confidence he hadn't been expressly given.

He didn't want to get Kurt into more trouble if Kurt, for some reason, decided not to leave his husband.

Blaine searched the crowd every night from his balcony, and stood guard outside his doors during the afternoon, hoping he'd see Kurt on his way through town.

But his mind itched to go and search Kurt down for himself.

Blaine wasn't a man who liked playing the waiting game.

So it was a lucky thing that he didn't have long to wait.

* * *

Kurt limped his way to town slowly, but shuffling more than he actually walked. From David's house to town was a fair stretch of the legs, a bit longer a walk than from his father's house to town back in Defiance. Kurt would have enjoyed it, if his twisted right knee and ankle didn't throb with every step. The ache in his leg was part of the reason why Kurt hadn't returned to The Canary Cage. David had come home in a foul temper. His trip to Hamilton hadn't gone off as well as expected. Kurt only caught a little of the happenings while an infuriated David held him down and punched him. When Kurt stopped struggling, David had his way, then left again for a couple of days. He didn't tell Kurt where he went this time around, but Kurt suspected he hadn't gone too far. He didn't want to chance getting caught sneaking out. But he also knew that he must look affright. That wouldn't bother him so much if it were only the girls looking at him…or Sebastian. But now, apparently, Blaine had found him out. He knew that he existed. Kitty and Sebastian tried to tell him that everything would be alright, that Blaine wouldn't make a scene or kick him out.

They'd even suggested that telling Blaine might help.

But Kurt couldn't. He couldn't tell this man about the atrocities his husband had inflicted on him. It wasn't right to burden the man that way. Kurt didn't even know him other than he dressed like a prince and owned the closest thing to heaven that Kurt had ever seen with his own two eyes.

Kurt was sure New York would take The Canary Cage's place in that capacity when he finally got there – if he ever got there. But for now, in Kurt's mind, it went (in ascending order) The Canary Cage, then heaven.

The Canary Cage might even be better because, at least, he could actually get into The Canary Cage.

Besides, admitting to Blaine Anderson that he had been beaten and raped by his own husband would be too shameful for Kurt to admit. He'd rather die than have to say those words to Blaine's face.

But after that night, after locking eyes with the man and having him see the proof of his husband's abuse writ over his face, Kurt didn't think he could walk through the doors of The Canary Cage ever again.

He wouldn't have even risked going into town today if it wasn't an absolute emergency.

Kurt figured Blaine would be easy to avoid. It was the middle of the afternoon, so he would either be asleep (which he seemed to do rarely) or up in his balcony. And if not, the crowds in the street at this hour should conceal him. Kurt didn't dress like anything special – not the way he did in Defiance. In ratty pants and an old shirt, a hat covering his head, he'd blend in with the other farmers and cowboys and ranchers, cluttering up the sidewalks and going about their business. There was no reason at all why Blaine should see him.

Here in Lima, Kurt was nothing special. In a sea of people, he'd simply disappear.

Kurt should have crossed the road before he made it to the saloon, but he was too busy thinking, and his feet kept walking, taking the same paths he did every time he came into town. But as he came closer, as the sound of laughing and talking and familiar voices hit his ears, he couldn't make himself turn away.

Kurt needed to see him. He needed to lay eyes on that beautiful man. And not just him. All of these people who had taken him in and made him one of their own. These girls, most of whom knew what it was like to be abused by a man, and Sebastian…sweet, kind, considerate Sebastian, who always found something nice about Kurt to remark on, like the sparkle in Kurt's eyes, or the brightness of his smile. Once he even complimented Kurt on the straightness of his teeth, which made Kurt chuckle – a sound that Sebastian said he'd been hoping for.

But Kurt knew that Sebastian was carrying on, trying to bring him up out of his slump.

Kurt had caught a glimpse of himself. He knew how he really looked.

It was something he normally avoided, but he hadn't been able to this time. He was polishing the copper pots when he saw his reflection in the shiny surface. He looked hideous. Broken. Far and away nothing like himself.

Except for his eyes, his reflection was foreign to him. He had become a different person – a punching bag for the one man he'd spent a lifetime trying to avoid.

Seeing the girls, seeing Sebastian, seeing Blaine, even for a moment, would make his day. It would be something to carry in his head and in his heart when he was forced beneath his husband at night.

Kurt had planned to just take a peek through the doors. He wouldn't even climb up the steps. He would stand on his tiptoes, see what he could see, and be on his way. No one would be the wiser.

Kurt never thought that someone would be standing outside the saloon, waiting for him.

* * *

Blaine saw Kurt before Kurt saw Blaine – caught sight of him with his head bowed, hustling down the street. He seemed to be indecisive about where he was going, taking a step to cross the street further down, then not, suddenly heading full steam toward the saloon, and then slowing up when he was almost at the steps. He stopped, peeked up, and that's when Kurt saw him. Blaine would have thought the way his eyes opened in surprised and his mouth formed a little 'o' were the most adorable things he'd ever seen. But the new bruises, the new shiner, the brand new swell to his lower jaw overshadowed it all.

Kurt clamped his lips shut and turned away, racing across the street. Blaine leapt down the steps and took chase, keeping his eyes peeled for Kurt's back as he weeded through traffic, trying not to lose him.

"Hey, now!" Blaine called after him. Kurt's shoulders went rigid, and he walked a bit faster. "Hey, slow up! I only want to talk to you."

Kurt didn't slow up. He didn't look over his shoulder. He didn't say Hey. Kurt could kick himself for ignoring Blaine. He definitely wanted an audience with this man, but he had to be careful out in broad daylight. Of all the times he'd come into the saloon, Blaine picked now to talk to him? What if someone saw? What if someone told David?

Kurt had to stop for a horse ambling by, which gave Blaine time to catch up to him.

"Hey!" Blaine said, smiling like no one's business. Kurt didn't look his way, but Blaine saw him in profile. From close up, the bruises looked worse, but Blaine didn't let that take the smile off his face. "You walk fast, ya know. Anywhere important you tryin' to get to?"

"Just the" – Kurt stopped to clear his throat. His voice sounded rough, raw from screaming – "just the store." Kurt took a step, finding himself walking at an easy pace so Blaine might be encouraged to walk with him. "I'm in need of some brown sugar."

"Ahh," Blaine said, flashing Kurt a debonair smile, but not, Kurt noted, the one that he used on his customers, "do you have a sweet tooth? Because I have to admit, I have one."

"Do you?" Kurt said, trying not to smile, but unable to stop as he thought of Blaine, sitting in his balcony, sucking on peppermint sticks or chewing on a rope of licorice.

"I do," Blaine agreed. "In fact, I just got a whole pound bag of lemon drops at The Canary Cage, if you wanted to stop in for a handful."

"That's very kind of you to offer," Kurt said, trying his best to sound formal for anyone passing by who might decide to listen in. "Maybe some other time."

"Oh, well, if you wanna have some, you best stop by quick," Blaine insisted. "You see, Brittany has a bit of a sweet tooth, too. And no matter where I hide the candy, she always seems to find it. If she comes across it, there won't be none left for anyone."

"Oh," Kurt said, and his smile subconsciously grew, "far be it for me to deprive the poor girl. She's welcome to my share."

Kurt saw a flicker of disappointment on Blaine's face, but he picked up his pace again. Talking to Blaine like this was not a good idea. Someone would definitely notice.

"Kurt." Blaine hurried to keep up, but he didn't have to. The sound of his name coming from Blaine's lips stopped Kurt cold. "Kurt, don't run off. I can help you with your problem."

Blaine's voice went low when he said it, sinister. Blaine put his hands on his hips, a flick of his jacket tails uncovering his Colt, and Kurt caught Blaine's meaning. But a woman passing by nodded and smiled to Blaine, her expression going blank when she saw Kurt, and Kurt became flustered.

"I…I'm not sure what problem you think I have," Kurt said for the benefit of the next woman walking who lingered a step to listen.

Blaine looked at the woman who had caused the switch in Kurt, and frowned.

"Well, maybe I don't know," Blaine said, keeping pace with Kurt when he started to walk again, "but from what I hear, you're much too fashion-minded a man to be sporting that particular accessory."

Blaine made a motion toward Kurt's face.

From what he'd heard.

So it wasn't just the bruises that tipped him off. Brittany had told.

Kurt should be furious with her. She'd promised him, sworn on her favorite satin gown and something she called Lord Tubbington that she wouldn't. But he was sort of relieved that he didn't have to tell Blaine for himself.

"I apologize if you got the impression that the state of my accessories concerns you," Kurt said in a clipped voice as they approached the mercantile steps. Kurt was almost in the clear. He'd be inside Sylvester's Sundries and safe from this conversation, even if that meant away from Blaine. He'd never seen Blaine go into the mercantile before. His girls, yes, and Sebastian a time or two, but not him. But Blaine hurried ahead to get in front of Kurt and block his way.

"It does," Blaine said with a serious expression.

Kurt was frustrated. This conversation, out in the open, with Blaine Anderson of all people, had gone on too long. Kurt had gone beyond ill-advised and was testing fate at this point. But Blaine's sudden concern startled him. Kurt didn't know all that Brittany had told Blaine, but she just about knew everything. Kurt couldn't help telling her. It was odd. He hadn't intended to, but she was so attentive, so understanding. Once he'd started, that was it. It all came out.

He'd thought it might not be important enough for her to remember, but Kurt had underestimated her.

Apparently, her memory was long.

"And pray tell," Kurt said. "Why does it?"

Blaine shrugged.

"Maybe 'cus Brittany's so darned fond of you," Blaine said. "Maybe 'cus you're too handsome to have your face battered up. Or maybe 'cus it just ain't right, Kurt. You're a human being, and you don't deserve to be treated this way."

Kurt's heart stopped in his chest.

Did he just call me handsome?

A man rushing by to get to Sue's gave them a sideward glance that brought Kurt back to the present – a present where Blaine shouldn't be calling Kurt handsome. Where Blaine shouldn't even be talking to him.

Kurt tried to walk on by, but Blaine stayed in front of him, matching him step for step. Kurt sighed. Blaine said he was concerned for Kurt's safety, but he didn't seem to realize the damage he was doing right now.

"I don't know how you can help me," Kurt said quietly.

"Well, why don't you come back with me to The Canary Cage?" Blaine suggested. "And we can discuss it?"

"I…" Kurt's stomach dropped. He took a step back since Blaine wouldn't let him go forward. "I can't."

Blaine sensed Kurt's discomfort. He looked around and saw the eyes watching them, the heads inclined together, whispering, and Blaine figured out why.

"Why don't you and I take a turn around the block then?" Blaine asked. "Talk out of earshot?"

Kurt's eyes shifted left and right, and he shook his head a tiny bit.

"Alright," Blaine said. "Simple and quick then. I got some men on my payroll that can talk some sense into your husband."

Kurt's eyes immediately drifted down to the Colt on Blaine's hip. Kurt couldn't deny that he had thought of that, gathering some coin up and hiring a gunman to help him out. But when Paul heard, he'd know it was Kurt behind it. Then Carole and Rachel and the baby would pay.

Still, it was something. What if they could make it look like an accident? What if Paul couldn't trace it back to Kurt? Kurt knew it was crazy, but there was no harm in asking the terms and conditions.

"And how would I be expected to repay this gesture?" Kurt asked. "If I were to agree?"

"You'd come work for me," Blaine said.

Kurt rolled his eyes.

"Well, you've got yourself a competent bartender," Kurt said. "And I can't do what your girls do."

"Not like that," Blaine laughed. "I need a singer. And let's face it, I need a better piano player. The guy I have now is just…"

"Awful?" Kurt finished, and Blaine threw his head back this time when he laughed.

"You've noticed," Blaine said.

"I think everyone from here to Columbus has noticed," Kurt said, earning another laugh.

Kurt realized he could listen to that laugh all day. He wanted to.

"I'm afraid he might actually be scaring away business," Blaine commented. "So I need to replace him quick. I mean, I can't just not have a piano player. My customers like to dance with my girls. And they need music for…uh…other things."

Blaine's smile turned smug when color rushed to Kurt's cheeks. He hadn't meant to flirt with the man, but it felt kind of nice talking to him like this. He could probably stand out on this street and talk to Kurt till doomsday. That wasn't something easy to find in a person, for Blaine in particular, who had no patience for other people's opinions or their words.

"I'd be willing to pay you for both," Blaine went on.

"That's very generous," Kurt said, his mouth turning down at the corners. Blaine could tell he'd considered it, but he felt he had to turn him down. "But I don't think my husband…"

"You don't understand," Blaine said, inching a bit closer than he should. "It's a live-in position, Kurt. Room and board." Kurt's eyes met his. "If you work for me, you'd have to leave your husband."

Kurt swallowed hard. Here it was. He had an out. A person willing to help him. The urge to say yes and follow Blaine to The Canary Cage was hard to resist. It was an offer he'd be stupid to refuse. But for the sake of his stepmother and his sister-in-law, he had to.

"I…I can't," Kurt said, his voice breaking. "I gave myself to David to keep my family safe. If I leave him, his father will go after them. I can't risk it."

"Kurt," Blaine said, "I can help them, too."

Kurt's breath hitched. It seemed too incredible to believe, so Kurt wouldn't let himself. He didn't know Blaine. Could he really trust him, with so much at stake? Kurt didn't want to question his honor. He didn't want to be rude when Blaine, by all outward appearances, had been nothing but sincere.

"Why are you so all fired up willing to help me?" Kurt asked.

Blaine's smug smile tried to make a comeback, but he knew that Kurt was getting ready to leave him.

"I kinda got a soft spot for hard luck cases."

Kurt sighed.

So close. He was so close. He could say yes and be rid of David, but it seemed too good to be true. His father used to say that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Kurt couldn't agree, but he had a feeling that Blaine wasn't about to let the matter go unless he said yes.

Kurt had no choice. He'd go home and come back to the store another time.

"Good-bye, Blaine," Kurt said.

Before he took a step, Blaine put a hand on his arm.

"He's gonna kill you, Kurt," Blaine implored. "You know it, and I know it. It's just a matter of time."

Kurt looked down at the hand on his arm. It was warm, comforting. It was what he wanted, and for a moment, Kurt gave himself permission to imagine that it was his.

Just another thing to add to the escape.

Kurt looked into Blaine's pleading face and smiled.

"It's okay, Blaine," Kurt said. "Really. He won't hurt me more than I can handle." Blaine gasped, and Kurt felt himself choke on the next words that popped to his mind. "And so what if he does? I'm nothing here."

Kurt gently wrenched his arm free of Blaine's grasp and walked up the mercantile stairs, leaving Blaine, The Canary Cage, and his chance at freedom behind.

It took more strength than Kurt ever knew he possessed to open the front door.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Warning for much more intense and darker abuse, anxiety, and domestic violence leading to violent injury.

It took Kurt twice as long to walk home with the bag of brown sugar cradled in his arms then it did for him to get to town in the first place. He couldn't get his fingers to curl around the lip of the bag, so he had to carry it in the crook of his arm. But after walking a few feet, that didn't work too well either. So he wrapped his arms around it, holding on to his forearms, but he still had to stop every once in a while to shift the position of the bag.

In reality, the bag wasn't that heavy, but it might as well have weighed a thousand pounds, the way his body refused to work correctly.

He was only eighteen. He didn't like feeling this weak and feeble.

As he walked, Kurt thought over everything Blaine had said to him – a job at The Canary Cage with room and board, having someone deal with David, and best of all, an offer to help Carole and Rachel. The more he thought about it, the more he started to wonder - why again was it that he was walking back to David's house? Why was he continuing on with this farce?

Why did he have to walk all the way outside of town to realize that he should have jumped at Blaine's offer?

Kurt still wasn't entirely convinced that Blaine's proposal would work. Paul Karofsky was a powerful man, with property and money to his name. Kurt didn't know if Blaine, with The Canary Cage under his belt, would prove to be a match. But agreeing to let Blaine try would be better than doing what he's been doing.

Kurt can't go through the rest of his life like this. He can't wake up every morning in agony, and then go through the day terrified of what he's going to do or say that might set David off. He can't spend every night with his stomach tied up in knots, waiting for the day that David snaps to the point of beating him to death. Kurt already had marks on his body that would never heal. His right leg wouldn't straighten, and he thought his knee might have dislocated.

Blaine was right. Kurt was a human being. He didn't deserve to be treated like this. It needed to change. Kurt needed to find the strength to change it.

Kurt started making plans – plans that wouldn't necessitate running to Blaine for help. He'd find another way to make money. He'd save it up, one coin at a time if he had to, then find a place away from Ohio that would be able to help him and Rachel and Carole. There were places in the city that took in abused spouses, and widowed women with children. He'd heard about them. They weren't widely talked about, but they were there. It wouldn't be easy. It would mean staying with David a while longer, but he could do it. He'd survived this far. He would just have to keep on surviving. He would wake up every day and remind himself what he's living for, what his goal was. He'd obey the rules, do what David wanted for the time being – even if that meant that his days at The Canary Cage were done. Kurt couldn't have anyone telling on him to David, and he couldn't make Blaine think that he needed his help so badly.

Kurt could do this. He could definitely do this.

With every step toward the house, hugging the bag of brown sugar till his arm made a dent in the middle of the bag, Kurt became filled with the vigor of his own righteousness.

But it wilted like a rose in the mid-summer heat when he saw David's buckboard parked outside the house, and his horse feeding in the stable. Everything from his stomach to his throat spiraled into knots. David was early. He had come home early, and he knew that Kurt had gone.

Kurt stopped walking.

He knew what he'd find when he walked in the house. David would be sitting on the sofa in the living room, waiting for him, with his jug of rye in his lap, most likely half-drunk. Depending on when David got home, he could have been nursing that bottle for hours. But Kurt hadn't been gone that long – an hour, maybe two. And David wasn't home then. Still, Kurt hoped his jug was most of the way gone, because then David would be more amorous than angry, and Kurt had discovered that being fucked he could handle. He could shut his eyes and wander away, take his mind to The Canary Cage – to Kitty teasing Sebastian over the way he styled his hair, to Sebastian smiling at him and offering him a drink, to Brittany and Santana chasing each other on the dance floor while their customers hooted and hollered, hoping one of them would slip up and lose control of their skirt, which one of them always did, but on purpose.

He could travel back in time, stand out on the street with Blaine, Blaine's hand on Kurt's arm, begging him to go to the saloon with him, to leave his husband and his terrible life, and come with him where he would be safe.

Kurt kept all of these things tucked away in his head, bringing them to the forefront so that they would be available to him, to combat whatever awaited him in that house.

Kurt straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and kept walking, his brain screaming at him with every step to turn around, go back into town, and take Blaine up on his offer.

Do _anything_.

But his thoughts from his wedding barreled back like a freight train to change his mind.

 _Someone needed to take care of his stepmother and his sister-in-law._

 _If Kurt didn't stay married to David, they'd have no place to live._

 _Without this marriage, their lives would be over._

Kurt walked into the house, keeping his head held high. David didn't mind beating Kurt until he cowered like a kicked puppy, but if he walked around like a kicked puppy, it made David even angrier. David claimed that wasn't the man he married. The Kurt that he married was a force to be reckoned with, not a beat-down bitch.

The constant contradiction drove Kurt out of his mind. Nothing about David made sense, so Kurt didn't know what would tip him off until it happened.

David was right where Kurt knew he'd be – sitting on the sofa, eyes trained on the door, waiting for Kurt to come home.

"Hello, _husband_ ," David drawled, lifting his jug and taking a sip. "You didn't leave a note telling me where you were goin'. I was worried."

"Hello, David," Kurt said, not looking directly at the man loafing on the sofa. "You're home earlier than I expected."

"Is there sumthin' wrong with that?" David mumbled. "Sumthin' wrong with me wantin' to come home and be with my husband?"

Mumbled, not slurred. Not quite as drunk as Kurt had hoped for.

"No," Kurt said, alarms sounding off in his head, warning him to be careful. "No. Not at all. I'm… _happy_ to see you. More time for us to spend together."

It was a lie Kurt had found important to learn, no matter how his stomach turned itself inside-out when he told it.

David curled his lip at Kurt as Kurt walked by, clumsily balancing a bag of _something_ in his arms. Probably slipped and fell on his way into town, sprained his wrist, but Kurt would find a way to resent him for that, too. Son-of-a-bitch wouldn't even look at him, not in the eyes. David didn't like the feeling that Kurt was avoiding him. He didn't like being unappreciated, not when he kept a roof over Kurt's head and food in his stomach. He asked Kurt for so little. All he wanted was his husband's love, and to date, Kurt had denied him that.

David did _everything_ in this marriage, and Kurt – Kurt did nothing.

"Don't seem so," David said, "or the house wouldna been empty when I got here."

"Well, I'm sorry about that." Kurt headed to the kitchen with the bag in his arms, holding it like a shield against his chest.

 _Don't follow me,_ Kurt chanted in his head _. Don't follow me, don't follow me, don't follow me…_

He heard David get up off the couch, solid footsteps walking behind him into the kitchen. His heart began to stutter.

"Where _did_ you go today?" David asked.

Kurt's heart drummed so hard, he almost couldn't talk. He didn't look at David, sure his husband would see the terror in his eyes, but that didn't keep David from staring at him. Kurt didn't think he could ever get used to those eyes – the way they followed his every move, every step he took around the kitchen.

If Kurt ever did manage to get away from David, he knew he'd still see those eyes in his nightmares.

Kurt fiddled around the kitchen, getting things out of the cupboards that he needed to make supper. His hands shook as he worked, though he begged for them not to. He needed some space. He needed a way to put David and his eyes out of his mind.

If he was occupied cooking, David probably wouldn't touch him. He'd be fine till after supper. Kurt started thinking of all the things he could make to go along with the ham that would keep him busy – mashed potatoes, candied yams, green beans with fried onions.

A pie? He had a bowl full of apples starting to go south. He could whip up a pie.

Whip! Homemade whip. He could swing that, too.

That would be two hours of prep time in the kitchen.

Two hours that he would be safe.

"I went to the mercantile," Kurt said without emotion. "We were out of brown sugar."

"Oh," David said, as if that explained everything, making it all better. "We needed sugar. Well, that's alright." David tapped the kitchen table with his fingertips and turned back toward the living room. He stopped at the stove where Kurt was buttering a large casserole dish, and kissed him lightly on the nape of the neck. Kurt dug his nails into his palm to keep from jumping at David's touch. "I'll let you get back to cooking then."

"Thank you," Kurt said, making the words as sweet as he could.

Kurt heard David's footsteps fading into the next room, and he almost relaxed. He seemed to be in the clear. David accepted that as an excuse. He hadn't driven through town on his way back to the house, and if he did, no one told him anything was amiss.

Anything about him and Blaine.

Except, again, Kurt had to remember that if something's too good to be true…

"Oh, but wait…" David turned inside the doorway and walked back into the kitchen.

Kurt held his breath.

"…where were you the other night?"

 _…it probably is._

"Wh-what do you mean?" Kurt asked, turning around quickly.

He'd rather see what's coming at him then have David grab him from behind.

"The other night," David repeated, expecting a different response, "and the night before that, and the night before that, and every night that I've been gone."

"Oh…" Kurt felt himself solidify, fear turning his body to stone.

Now if he could only be like stone – hard, invincible. If he could hurt David back when David touched him.

Didn't have to feel when David made him crumble.

"Yes, Kurt," David said. "I know. I know about _everything_."

David found out. Of course, he found out. Kurt knew it was only a matter of time.

 _"He's gonna kill you, Kurt. You know it, and I know it. It's just a matter of time."_

Kurt _had_ known it, long before Blaine said it. He just didn't think today was that day.

"David," Kurt said, automatically putting his hands up for defense, "I…"

David gave Kurt no chance to speak. He stormed over in three strides and punched him, snapping Kurt's head to the left and slamming him backward into the stove.

"Do you think I like being made a fool of!?" David roared, punching him again. "Do you think I like working hard, day and night, for _you_ , and finding out that you're stepping out on me!?"

 _Stepping out?_

"No, David," Kurt slurred, blood flooding his mouth. "I'm not stepping out. I…"

David punched him again, so hard he lost vision in his right eye.

"Don't lie to me, you little slut! People saw you. They saw you talking up some guy at the saloon. They saw you steppin' out on me!"

Kurt shook his head, blood spraying from his mouth, spattering his shirt, the kitchen table, the floor.

"I didn't!" Kurt pleaded. "I swear to God, I didn't!"

"You don't believe in God," David growled. "So everything you say is worthless. You're worthless." He chuckled darkly. "You thought you could cheat on me." One more punch knocked Kurt to his hands and knees. "I give you everything, Kurt!" David yelled, bending close to Kurt's ear so the words would etch in his head. "I give you everything, and you give me shit! You won't even have sex with me! I gotta make you! Well, you'll learn, Kurt. I'm gonna go down to that fuckin' place, and I'm gonna kill him! You hear that, Kurt? I'm gonna kill him!"

Kurt wanted to laugh. He might have a little. If David went down to The Canary Cage and confronted Blaine, Blaine would gun him down in the street. There would be witnesses. It would end up in the papers, and Paul wouldn't be able to say that Kurt had any hand in it.

Blaine would exact Kurt's vengeance, and Kurt would be free.

It was more perfect than Kurt could have dreamed. He couldn't have come up with a better plan.

Kurt was going to dare him. Even if it got him punched again and he lost vision in his left eye, it would be worth it to have David taken care of.

He almost did it. The words were right there, waiting.

But Kurt remembered that he hadn't talked to Blaine at The Canary Cage. The only man he'd spoken to at The Canary Cage was…

Oh God! David was talking about _Sebastian_.

Sebastian, who didn't carry a gun on him. Sebastian, who talked people down before they got into scuffles. Sebastian, who was sensitive and kindhearted, and wouldn't hurt a hair on anyone's head.

David couldn't touch Blaine with a ten-foot pole, but he'd kill Sebastian.

"No, David!" Kurt yelled, raising his voice to a level he wouldn't have dreamed. "No! Don't go down there! Don't you dare!"

The world stopped dead. Kurt didn't breathe. He didn't think David did either, but he saw fire burning in his eyes.

"Oh," David said, "that's exactly what I intend to do. But first, I'm gonna make damn sure that no one will ever wanna lay a finger on you again."

David grabbed Kurt around the neck and squeezed. Kurt's hands found David's and pulled, digging his nails in, but Kurt couldn't breathe, and he was losing the energy to move or think.

"Ya know," David muttered as he dragged Kurt into the living room, Kurt losing fight, losing momentum, "I'm getting sick and tired of all your fighting when this is _your_ fault." David shook Kurt hard till he felt his teeth rattle. "None of this woulda happened if you'd just be a good husband to me – be loving, be _grateful_. So I brought home a little sumthin' I bought in Hamilton to help you see right."

Another squeeze, and Kurt lost the last breath he had left. He felt his body drop. He couldn't brace himself against hitting the ground, so his body just hit it. He was flipped over, his arms drawn behind his back, something cold, hard, and metal clapped around his wrists.

Kurt couldn't lift a finger to stop him. Even his fight reflex had been knocked from him.

But one thing hadn't been. The thing he'd use to escape this. The thing he had lodged so deep in his skull, there was no way that David could dig it out, even if he opened Kurt's head and tried to tear it out.

The hands shredding the clothes from his body couldn't remove it.

The shackles around his wrists couldn't make him forget it.

The leather crop, which appeared from God knew where, cutting into his skin while he lay helpless, while he could do nothing but scream, couldn't steal it from him.

The name _Blaine Anderson_.

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, and he was in the middle of the street, wearing a fine suit like Blaine's, leather boots on his feet, and a hat of imported wool on his head, one that actually fit.

He walked down that street with his face uncovered, a smile on his un-split lips.

People waved to him as he walked down the street. They said, "Hey," and called him by his name – Kurt Hummel.

And there in front of him was The Canary Cage, waiting for him to come inside.

Kurt pictured himself climbing the steps.

Right outside the swinging doors, he heard Kitty laughing.

He saw Sebastian smile at him from behind the bar.

Brittany ran up from the dance hall and hugged him. Santana looped an arm through his, resting her head against his shoulder.

Blaine came down from the balcony. He smiled at Kurt, walked over, and put a hand on his arm – a hand that filled Kurt with warmth and comfort.

And love.

Then the music stopped, the lights went out, and everything went black.

* * *

Kurt woke up in a dark, quiet house.

Dark and quiet as far as he could tell.

If it was, he'd have that to be thankful for.

After the lash to his back that knocked him unconscious, he had thought for a brief moment that that was the end; that he wouldn't wake up this time.

Death would be a relief compared to this torture.

He didn't want to move. The floor beneath his body felt comforting. He could sleep here until the morning, when David would come downstairs and unlocked the cuffs, but Kurt didn't know what David would do after that. What if David expected him to be dead? What if finding him alive angered him more than the idea of Kurt stepping out on him?

What could David do to him that was worse than this – naked, whipped, raped, wrists shackled behind his back, possibly left for dead?

With the exception of his forays to The Canary Cage, Kurt had tried to be good. He'd done everything he was supposed to. He _had_ to go to town. That couldn't be avoided. It was Thursday, and on Thursdays, David expected ham for supper. But Kurt couldn't make it the way David liked it without brown sugar. It was a vicious circle really. Get beat for going to town to get sugar, or get beat for not having sugar in the house.

He'd kept his hat pulled low to cover his face like he'd been told, so no one would see his bruised eye or his split lip. Not that it made a difference. Plenty of people in town knew, and no one did a thing. Beating a spouse was only a moral dilemma; it wasn't illegal. No one had a care for him just because he was being abused by his husband.

No one except for Blaine Anderson, Sebastian Smythe, and the girls at The Canary Cage.

And he had even made plans to avoid Blaine. Peeking in to the saloon from the street shouldn't have been a crime. Kurt couldn't predict that Blaine Anderson would be waiting for him. He didn't expect Blaine to come talk to him. None of that was his fault.

But it seemed like Kurt was being punished for a lot that wasn't his fault.

His father's inability to balance a checkbook, for one.

David's father giving David the impression that Kurt wanted this marriage because he had somehow suddenly fallen in love with him was another.

David's inability to control his temper and keep his hands to himself was a big one.

And the most heinous crime of all - needing a friend. Wanting human contact. Finding compassion.

Those things, apparently, weren't supposed to belong to him.

Kurt didn't know where David would be if he wasn't in the house. He wasn't supposed to hit the trail again for another two days or so. Kurt had no idea what exactly happened after he passed out, but the sore state of his ass and the blood tricking down his leg gave him a clue.

Kurt climbed to his feet, leaning into the wall for balance, muscles screaming, joints resisting. He couldn't put on any clothes with his hands shackled behind his back. It didn't matter anyway. He didn't have any dignity left to salvage anyhow.

Kurt walked through the open door of the house, and swore that this time, hell or high water, he wouldn't come back. He stumbled off the porch and onto the dirt, feet aching, legs buckling, body burning, begging him to lie down on the hard-packed earth and go back to sleep, but he forced himself forward.

At this hour of the night, the only people on the roads were travelers. Also thieves, but he had nothing to steal. One of the town's deacons passed by in his buggy, on his way home from somewhere, but the uptight man rode on without even a glance.

Kurt kept his mind clear, afraid that if he let his thoughts wander, he would lose his nerve, feel ashamed, and run back home.

Not home. That house had never been home.

The thought of Blaine's offer gave him the courage to continue on. He concentrated on his steps, one foot after the other, walking for hours, until he reached town.

People hollered at him, whistled at him, laughed at him, called him cuss words and slurs.

Not a one of them tried to help him.

He didn't care. Up ahead, with the piano banging out an off-key tune, and girls in garters giggling like debutantes, he'd find his haven.

Kurt didn't know how, but he made it - just inside the swinging doors. That seemed to be the limit of his strength. He saw the lights, heard the music, felt the warmth it lent him, and he smiled.

Kurt decided then that he was wrong before. _This_ was heaven.

His eyelids fluttered shut, and he collapsed to the floor.

Brittany, drinking and playing Faro with some slingers by the door, saw him first. She leapt up before he fell and ran to his side, but he hit the floor before she could catch him. She tore at the seams of her voluminous skirt, and covered Kurt's naked body as best she could with the silky fabric. Blood soaked through, as swift as if the thick material were nothing but thin tissue, and she cried out loud.

"Santana!"

Santana, sitting in the lap of a man at the table with her, reacted next.

"My God!" she screamed, watching Brittany's sky blue skirt turn black with Kurt's blood. "Kitty!" She called across the room to the girl laughing and dancing further in. "Quick! Get my cuff keys! Now!"

A harem surrounded him, much to the dismay of the men who had been throwing around good money for their company.

"Anderson!" Kurt heard a disgruntled man bellow. "Get this faggoteer out of here! He's hoggin' all the fun!"

What Kurt didn't register was the sound of a fist impacting with the man's face.

Kitty had a dry cloth pressed against Kurt's split lip while Santana tried discreetly to remove the cuffs from Kurt's wrists. Rubbed completely raw, they stung with every touch of her fingertips, but compared to everything else, Kurt barely felt it. Such a fuss they made, the clanging of the metal cuffs and orders being tossed, the clamor of tending to their friend, none of them heard the footsteps of three men walking towards them.

Kurt moved his lips to speak, trying to convey a message, but his throat was so dry, it refused to make a sound.

"Sebastian!" Kitty yelled. "Get him some water!" But the bucket was in her hands before she finished asking. Kitty drenched the towel and pressed it to Kurt's lips, squeezing gently to help him take a drink.

Kurt coughed, and then took more, his lips smarting, his mouth too dry for that trickle of liquid to do much good. He moved his mouth again, hoping the words would come this time, before his jaw dislodged completely and fell to the floor.

"What is it, honey?" Santana cooed through tears. She put a hand out to stroke his hair, but pulled it away. She couldn't. There wasn't an area of unbruised skin that she could touch. She couldn't bear to cause him more pain. "What is it you want?"

"T-tell Blaine…" Kurt cleared his throat, a stream of blood passing through his cracked lips. "Tell him I'm taking him up on his offer."

The girls looked up when they heard a growl, into golden eyes looking down at them, a face shrouded with as much thought of murder as one man can put into a single stare.

A man beside him put a hand on his shoulder, and Blaine turned to the men flanking him – the Puckerman brothers, Noah and Jake, the most ruthless hired gunmen in all of Ohio. Blaine took a long look at the broken man at his feet. He'd just seen to him earlier today, walking around town, hiding his face. He'd talked to him. He'd even made him smile.

Blaine saw that smile when he blinked his eyes, but it dissolved into this image of mutilation at his feet, and his insides broiled, body shaking with simmering rage. Kurt had come to The Canary Cage looking for sanctuary, and he'd found it, the way Blaine had when he built the place, the way his girls had when they first came to his door.

He'd made Kurt a promise. Even if Kurt wouldn't accept his offer, the promise was still there, and Blaine intended to keep it.

Blaine wasn't going to fail him.

This should have never happened to Kurt. It ended _now_.

"Sebastian," Blaine commanded, "take Kurt upstairs. Put him in my room."

"Yes, boss," Sebastian said, leaping over the bar.

"Tina," Blaine called across the gambling hall to one of the few girls who hadn't run over when Kurt came through the door. "Go fetch the doctor."

"But Blaine," Tina whined, "I'm gonna have to take the buggy out."

"Then grab a man and go!" he snarled. Tina didn't argue, grabbing ahold of Mike, one of her regulars, and heading for the door.

Blaine watched Sebastian carry Kurt gingerly up the stairs, hushing him softly. A devastated Brittany, wrapped in Santana's arms, followed.

Blaine watched Kurt and Sebastian until they disappeared from view. Then he snapped his fingers.

The two men at his sides turned and walked out of the saloon.

They already knew what to do.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Puckerman Brothers

**A/N: Kind of an interim chapter. Warning for violence and mention of blood.**

The Puckerman brothers mounted their horses outside The Canary Cage, riding together side-by-side to the outskirts of town. They were a fearsome duo to behold – one older than the other, but both with the same striking features, the same piercing dark eyes, the same swift hand on the draw, the same rigid seat as they rode, like harbingers of wrath, sent to earth by the Almighty himself.

They'd been working at Blaine's saloon for some time now, keeping the peace at his place while no sheriff was in town. The job at Blaine's was open-ended. They came and went as they pleased, as long as nothing was pressing. They had gotten a lead on a job in San Antonio. It paid a bit less, but money wasn't the allure. Lima was a dead town. Nothing ever happened there, and nothing would happen at The Canary Cage as long as Blaine were around. Neither man liked to admit it, but where they both were quick with their pistols, Blaine Anderson might have been a hair quicker. The Canary Cage was safe without them.

The Puckerman brothers weren't babysitters.

They were preparing to head to Texas, with Blaine's blessing, but just as they'd gotten their provisions packed, Blaine invited them both to his balcony and told them that he had something on the horizon, something _big_ , something that would satisfy their thirst _and_ pay handsomely – with half on hand, and half later on, plus a bonus if the job came through.

They were told what they needed to know, about some asshole outside of town beating the crap out of his husband, and Noah smiled.

"No need for all the foreplay, boss," he'd said. "We'll take the job. Texas can close her pretty legs and wait."

Like Blaine, they weren't men who liked to play the waiting game, but Noah and Blaine in particular had history, so the brothers were willing to wait, and hung around the saloon to see how things panned out.

They'd been talking to Blaine about taking action on their own when that bloodied man stumbled in, beaten half-dead.

That was their signal to get to work.

They rode in silence until the road came to a fork. Jake and Noah stopped at the crossroad, standing together one last time before they went their separate ways, to tackle their journeys alone.

"Stay outta trouble, little brother," Noah said, putting an arm out for Jake to take.

"You, too, big brother," Jake said, grasping Noah's arm below the elbow and holding it tight, while Noah did the same.

Jake's brother was only six years older than him, but the gap in their ages seemed monumental due to their upbringing.

Noah and Jake were born of the same shiftless father, but came out of different mothers.

Jake's mother was the daughter of a Chicago socialite. Jake had been given the benefit of a fine education and a comfortable, city life. Noah had been brought up in the city, too, but his mother worked as a laundress. His mother used to say that they were so poor, the mice had more food to eat than they did. Noah's mother worked her fingers to the bone, and did the best she could stretching what meager money they had, but when times were rough, Noah sometimes had nothing but his mother's boxes of starch to stop his stomach grumbling. Noah spent his young life stealing, scraping, and taking odd jobs to support them both. He dreamed of giving his mother the kind of life that Jake's mother had handed to her, but that just wasn't in the stars for them.

When his mother couldn't find work, and had to turn to sporting to make ends meet, Noah started fighting for money in the hopes of buying out her contract. Noah had nothing against whores as a rule, but it broke his heart to see his mother become one.

At the time, he was only twelve.

And yet, regardless of their differences, both boys became hired guns, and ended up together in Lima, Ohio, when Blaine Anderson swooped in to set up shop.

When money ran thin, they always had Blaine to go to for work.

But Noah had been through so much more as a hired gun than Jake had. He'd seen things most men hadn't at twice his age. Noah traveled with a regiment when he was barely more than fourteen, and been trained as a scout. He'd been shot twice – once in the arm, once in the leg, captured by Indians, and nearly scalped, but he got away. It was an exciting story, one that he could use to his advantage to gain the admiration of men and women, but he didn't. Very few people actually heard it from Noah's lips, and that was one of the reasons why Jake looked up to him so much.

With his charm and his rugged looks, Noah was notoriously popular with the ladies. Jake supposed that his brother probably had a kid in most cities from there to the west coast, but it didn't feel right prying. Jake knew Noah sent much of his earnings to his mother, but he'd also caught his brother wiring money to nameless places numerous times before, without explanation. But the state of his suspected parenthood didn't mean that Noah wasn't a good man. An honest man. A loyal man. He gave all to whom he loved, which included his brother, his mother in St. Louis, and Kitty Wilde.

Noah was a passionate man, and a bit reckless. Every time Jake parted ways with his brother, he always feared it would be the last.

Jake looked at him hard, eyes not leaving his face until his brother's smirk lit his eyes.

"You'll see me again," Noah said, assuming the reason his brother was reluctant to leave. "I mean, someone needs to protect Kitty from you constantly trying to turn her into an honest woman."

"Never," Jake said, tightening his grip. "She only has eyes for you."

"Funny" - Noah laughed - "because I feel the same about you, brother." Noah shook Jake's arm once. "Be swift."

"Be safe," Jake said.

They unclasped arms. They turned their horses in separate directions and rode away.

Each brother had an important message to deliver.

Noah headed off to Defiance, to the home of Kurt's family…or what was left of his family. With a hearty sack of coin hidden in a false seam of his saddle bag, he would help Kurt's stepmother and sister-in-law take only what they could carry and leave, run far away from their house, and Defiance, and never look back.

Jake's message, though, was of a distinctly different nature.

He rode to the house where Kurt had been living. Correction - the prison where he had been shackled, raped, and beaten. Jake was told to use his discretion in how he handled David, but that nothing short of death was off the books.

Blaine felt that killing David wasn't the best idea. They may not have a sheriff in town, but a revenge killing could still be construed unjustifiable homicide. If Kurt were a woman, it might end different, but not for a man, and with Jake being mulatto, there'd be little question. With the money Paul Karofsky had, he could get any number of lawmen or hired guns out to Lima in no time flat.

Paul wouldn't know right away to pin anything on Jake, but he'd have Kurt killed out of spite.

Besides, Blaine wanted David to suffer, and live with his suffering the way he had forced Kurt to do.

Jake had plans of confronting David in his home, figuring he'd be passed out asleep. If he wasn't there, well then Jake would deliver half his message now, and lie in wait to deliver the rest. But Jake met David on the road, heading to the house. From the description Blaine had given him, this man could be no one but. Even if Blaine hadn't told him a single other distinguishing feature, the man's overwhelming size was a sure-fire giveaway. From the looks of it, his torn, filthy clothes, and his exaggerated limp, David had been thrown from his horse, and Jake knew why. In David's meaty fist, he held a leather crop. He'd probably gone hard at the poor animal. Jake didn't see the horse around. If it didn't head for the hills, it most likely made its way home.

David walked quite steadily. He swayed from left to right, but he didn't stumble, which meant he wasn't drunk enough to make beating him senseless too much of a crime.

Jake rounded in front of the man and stopped him, standing in position to block what sliver of the moon hung in the sky.

"David?" Jake asked. "David Karofsky?"

David blinked at him dumbly, tilting his head and squinting his eyes. With the horseman in front of him backlit, David couldn't make out the man's face, but he still tried to sort out where he'd met this man before, and how he'd know his name.

"Yeah?" David garbled. "I'm Dav…I'm David Karofsky. Who wants to know?"

"I do," Jake said, and nothing more. He jumped down from his saddle. David inferred his aim and backed away, but Jake overtook David easily.

"Wha-what d'ya think you're doin'?" David roared as Jake bound his wrists behind his back in his own metal shackles, covered in Kurt's sticky blood.

"What you like to do," Jake chided. "Ain't it a hoot?"

Jake tethered David by a length of rope round his neck to the saddle horn of his horse. David struggled to break free, or get a headbutt in, but Jake sidestepped him, letting the burly man sink to his knees. Jake made no move to help the man to his feet. He'd follow along however he managed. Jake re-mounted his horse and set out at a walk, dragging David down the dirt road the rest of the way to the house.

Jake didn't take his horse to a gallop. He didn't want to break the man's neck. He brought his horse's walk down to half-pace, but David still stumbled. He fell a few times. He spent a bit on his knees, choking, with his neck pulled up at an angle, scrambling to keep up.

David was near unconscious by the time they made it to the house. Jake untied David from his horse. It seemed cruel to the animal to keep them tied together. But he left David cuffed, pushing his face into the dirt with the toe of his boot.

"Stay," Jake commanded, then turned his sights toward the house.

Jake wasted no time, storming into the house and ripping it apart. He overturned every stitch of furniture, plucked up every floor board, and tore apart every pathetic piece of David's clothing. He had been told to search for anything of value: money, jewelry, but mostly anything that might belong to Kurt, including one item in particular that Jake ended up finding hidden beneath false planks in the bedroom floor - a wood chest with the name 'Hummel' burned into the top.

Jake loaded the chest and a few other items into David's buckboard. They might be Kurt's things. Jake knew little about Kurt, truth be told, but from what he'd heard from Kitty and Brittany, Jake determined that along with the chest, at the very least, the sewing machine he came across might be Kurt's, along with some bolts of fine fabric he found stuffed into one of the chifferobes.

Once the buckboard was packed, and the house gone over, Jake went inside one last time with a box of matches and a bottle he brought with him of Old Malt Whiskey. He took a mouthful, sprayed the curtains with alcohol, and set them ablaze. He lit the bedsheets. He lit the rugs. He headed to the kitchen and the living room, and lit anything made of dried, untreated wood that he could find.

It was an older house, with a sun-scorched roof and termite damage, in need of repair. It went up like kindling.

Lima didn't employ a fire crew. The closest one was several towns over, and the volunteers would be dead to the world or drunk at this hour. This house would be ashes long before David could get anyone to come to his aid.

David lifted his head at the sound of flames snapping and popping, crackling like lightning hitting a rod. He blinked the dirt from his eyes, but grains clung to his lashes, turning to mud when his eyes watered. He tried his best to stand. If he could get to his feet, he thought, then he could take down this asshole, even with his hands tied behind his back - no question. David refused to put up with being robbed. He wasn't about to let someone coming out here and take what's his.

But David was affected by drink and knocks to his skull. _And_ he was cuffed.

Jake was sober and hadn't been touched.

It was an easy thing for Jake to turn on the larger man as he worked on getting to his feet. Jake pistol-whipped him soundly. When he had David down, Jake took the knife from his belt – a real Bowie knife that he liked to keep razor sharp, for close encounters.

Noah didn't fancy knives. He didn't like getting into any fight that he couldn't win with a gun from a reasonable distance.

But Jake was a hands on sort of man, not too repulsed to look straight in a man's face when he gutted him.

His Bowie knife was a personal favorite. It happened to be a gift from his older brother.

Jake wedged the knife beneath the collar of David's shirt and ripped through it, cutting the material off David's body in a single slice. Jake laid him flat on the ground with a kick to his shoulder, and did the pants, too. Then he went after him the way David had done to Kurt, with the bullwhip hanging off his saddle. Snap after snap, he covered David's back in raised marks, crisscrossing x's, then went over them again, flailing pieces of skin off his back.

David might have screamed. He might have cried. He probably begged Jake to stop, offered him money if he would, threatened him when that didn't work. Jake didn't hear him, nor did he care. He was doing a job. He was getting paid. The fact that this bastard deserved everything he was getting made it better, but it didn't make a difference.

When Jake was through, he left David in the dirt, naked, cuffed, whipped, his house burning to cinders.

"I'm taking your buckboard and your horse as payment for having to ride all the way out here to beat your sorry ass," Jake said, securing the buckboard to both horses. David moaned and clawed, trying his last to get up and fight, but Jake turned and pistol-whipped him one more time behind the right ear, for good measure. He shoved David back down with the heel of his boot, his spur cutting into his neck – nowhere serious, but he bled like a stuck pig all the same. Jake climbed into the driver's seat of the buckboard, taking a look down at David's wrecked body.

"Consider this a message, you steaming pile of horse shit," Jake said, "and listen good. Don't go looking for your husband. He ain't yours no more. And if you know what's good for you, you'll make yourself gone."

David didn't look up, he didn't move, but Jake knew the man had heard. He was frozen, waiting for Jake to go away.

Praying that he would go.

The way Kurt used to do.

It made Jake want to vomit.

He turned the horses and buckboard around, and rode off back towards town.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Warning for Kurt reminiscing about his mother's, father's, and Finn's death.**

"Shhh. It's okay, Kurt. It'll be okay. Blaine's gonna get someone to fix you up. You'll be fine, I promise." Sebastian spoke to Kurt in a soothing voice, while behind him, Brittany wailed, crying to make the rafters above them ring. The blood from Kurt's wounds was a pervasive entity, and soaked through Sebastian's shirt and sleeves to his skin. Sebastian didn't care that his shirt was ruined. Just so long as Kurt came through alright.

"Oh, Tana," Brittany whimpered. "What if he don't make it? What if his husband killed him this time?"

"He's not gonna die, alright?" Santana said, even though she'd been thinking the same thing. "So, don't think that."

Santana rushed ahead when they reached Blaine's room, letting go of Brittany to open the door. Sebastian hurried inside and laid Kurt down on the bed. Kurt shivered when Sebastian put him down. He kicked and mumbled, and Sebastian didn't want to let him go, but the sound of Blaine hurrying up the steps, calling out, "Let me through! Let me through!" reminded him that he wasn't the one taking care of Kurt. He wasn't the one going to save him.

Blaine came in and Sebastian moved away from the bed, giving Kurt over to Blaine's protection, not that he liked doing it.

"Thanks, Sebastian," Blaine said, but he didn't look at him. He only had eyes for Kurt. "Could you head back downstairs? Keep an eye on things?"

"Sure," Sebastian said, walking backward from the room. "Whatever you need, Blaine."

Sebastian hung in the doorway. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to be downstairs while Kurt was up here, suffering. He wanted to do more than carry him upstairs and leave him in Blaine's bed. He wanted to ease Kurt's pain. He wanted to hold his hand, and tell him that everything would be alright.

Blaine heard footsteps coming down the hall, and shot a look over his shoulder, hoping to see the doctor. He frowned when he saw Sebastian still there. Sebastian ducked out, hoping that someone might think to send word downstairs if Kurt was okay.

 _When_. _When_ Kurt was okay.

"Blaine!" The voice coming down the hallway didn't belong to the doctor, but Blaine knew it belonged to someone who could help. "Hey, Blaine. I heard all the screamin'. Was there a fight or sumthin'?" A tall blonde woman walked in, airy skirts settling around her ankles as if they were wings and she had flown. "You injured? I thought that I could help…"

Holly Holiday, one of Blaine's girls who mainly stuck to the cathouse, was usually the one they called in to handle things that couldn't be fixed by the use of a simple bandage. She gasped when she caught sight of the man lying on the bed, covered in a blood drenched skirt.

"Oh dear Lord! What in the world…"

When she heard the ruckus, she'd made the assumption that a fist fight had broken out, maybe a knife fight judging from the amount of screaming coming up to her window from the saloon next door. She didn't expect to see a boy, no older than her own son, looking like he was wearing on the outside most of what should have been inside him.

"Oh, thank heavens!" Blaine said, grabbing her hand and pulling her the rest of the way into the room. "Do you think you can help him?"

"I don't know, Blaine," Holly said, watching Blaine hasten to the bed and peel down the skirt. "I'm not a doc…"

Holly had to stop and swallow hard when Blaine removed the covering, her stomach turning inside-out. Those gashes, those cuts. He looked like he'd been through a meat grinder.

"Please," Blaine pleaded when she didn't say anything else. "Just…do what you can till the doctor comes? Please?"

Holly didn't have any idea who this was that'd been injured. He seemed important to the lot of them, but she didn't want to find herself out of a job and homeless by accidentally killing this kid, not when she had one of her own to support.

But then, Blaine didn't beg for anything. Not that she knew.

She couldn't say no.

"Alright," she said, tying back her shoulder-length blonde hair with a ribbon from her dress. "I'm no doctor, but I'll do my best."

From the doorway of the room, Brittany's shoes scuffed the floorboards as she fought with Santana to get inside.

"I wanna be with him!" Brittany cried, grabbing the door jamb and trying to yank herself through.

"I know, baby," Santana said, losing the battle against shedding tears as she tried to quell Brittany's grief. "I know, but you have to let them work, or he won't get better."

Brittany's voice turned shrill, and Holly flinched. She threw Blaine a significant look.

"Blaine," she said, "I can't work if…"

"Santana, here" - Blaine broke off and rummaged through the top drawer of his dresser, coming back to Santana with a palm-sized glass bottle, "give her some of this."

Santana looked at the label and crooked an eyebrow. "Laudanum?" She shook her head. "But what about Kurt?"

"I've got another bottle," Blaine said to dismiss her. "Don't look at me like that," he griped when she continued to stare. "Now's not the time to count my sins, is it?"

"Not a one," Santana said, taking Brittany by the arms and leading her to her room.

Blaine could hear Brittany throw a fit over being forced away. She was beside herself with heartache, and Blaine didn't blame her. Kurt was hard to look at. Even if he'd been a nobody, Blaine would have been sympathetic. But Kurt wasn't a nobody, and looking at him, curled in on himself, muttering mindlessly, restless with pain, made Blaine's heart sore.

Holly might not be a doctor, but she had talented hands. In her younger days, she'd traveled with a regiment. During the in-between times, she staved off boredom by learning nursing from some of the older whores who traveled with them. It was an important skill for the women to have while traveling across the country, since men tended to be stupid and lazy about many things. Women, being one. Cooking, another. But healing the sick in general - yes. The men they traveled with seemed to be all or nothing creatures. Without the women to remind them, most of the men spent their time chewing tobacco and playing cards, forgetting to change their bandages, then having to cut whole limbs off when they turned black with rot. It confused Holly, seeing how most city doctors tended to be men.

"City doctors, maybe," one of the women, Terri, had said to her, "but ya don't see a doctor out here, do ya? Because a doctor outside his cushy office is good for nothin'. It's the nurses what do all the work, sewing up the wounded, delivering the babies, and cleaning up the piss and vomit after."

Holly wasn't certain that she fully agreed. The doctor who delivered her son when he was feet first and in trouble was a man. A really nice man. But she'd decided that when she became too old to be a whore, she'd become a nurse.

Or a teacher. She was on the fence.

* * *

"Here. Bring it here." Sebastian waved Kitty over, the girl leading a man lugging a sack filled with sawdust. Sebastian had only seen this man in The Canary Cage twice before, and at the gambling tables, but he agreed to help when Kitty offered him a dance in exchange for hoofing sacks of sawdust in from the stables. "Drop it here." The man hauled it over, upturned the sack, and spread the sawdust on the floor. Sebastian watched the first layer of dust suck up the tacky pool of blood, the second and the third layer covering it completely. Sebastian had started cleaning to keep himself busy, the urge to run upstairs and check on Kurt every five minutes nearly too much, but he was in no mood to get down on his hands and knees and scrub. He decided to just put down sawdust and tackle it later.

"It got kind of quiet in here, didn't it?" Sebastian remarked, pulling up a barstool and taking a seat. Blaine would definitely give him an earful if he saw him sitting down, but Sebastian was about dead on his feet. He'd stolen a few minutes (thanks to Kitty watching the bar) to sponge Kurt's blood off his arms and chest. He changed out of his ruined shirt and pants, and into freshly laundered clothes, but they did little to make him feel any better. When he came back to reclaim the bar, he found that most of the saloon had emptied out - The Canary Cage's less reputable clientele, anyway.

"Yeah, well, a guy stumbles in, all messed up, then Jake and Noah" – Kitty mentioned their name with pride – "turn up out of the blue? Nobody smart would want in on that kind of trouble, no matter what side of the law they're runnin' on."

"Doctor's here," Tina announced, sauntering into the gambling hall, an older man carrying a leather bag rushing in past her.

"Yeah, well, you sure took your ever-lovin' time getting' back," Sebastian scolded, motioning to the doctor and leading him to the stairs. "Did you get stuck in a ditch or sumthin'?"

"What?" she said, acting the innocent – a performance she couldn't quite pull off. "I went straight there and came straight back. I swear."

"It's been close to an hour," Sebastian said, "and doc's house ain't more than thirty minutes away round trip by buggy."

"Don't be so testy," Tina said, following behind to continue the argument. "It's not like that guy's gonna die or anything."

She snickered to herself, brushing at a spot of sawdust on her skirt. A low voice in front of her snarled, "Excuse you?" and Tina rolled her eyes.

"Excuse yourself," she said, snapping her head up, expecting to see a sour-faced, lovesick Sebastian staring back at her. But it was Blaine on the landing, taking the steps down to meet her halfway.

"Blaine," she said, changing her tune at breakneck speed. She could tell by his glare that he'd heard her comment about Kurt, "I'm sorry, Blainey. I…"

"Shut it," Blaine cut in. "I don't wanna hear it."

Her face went blank with surprise.

"Oh, Blainey," she insisted, "but, I…"

"If you insist on bein' useless, can you do it someplace else?" he interrupted unkindly. "'Cus right now, I don't want you up here…"

"Blaine…"

"…and I don't wanna see you."

"B-but," she stuttered. "Blaine, you don't really mean…"

"Take a walk," he said and turned back, whatever he'd meant to go get forgotten.

Tina watched him go, heard him walk down the hall to his room. She turned with a huff and stormed down the steps.

"Come on, Mike," she said, grabbing the arm of the man who'd gone with her to get the doctor. "We're goin' next door."

She hadn't seen the point in rushing all the way out to the doctor's house. People got beat and shot and cut up in town every night. So she'd had Mike stop the buggy by the side of the road for a tumble. She didn't understand what the big deal was about Kurt, why everyone made such a stir when he came in. So he got beat on by his husband. So what? It's not like he was the first. Not likely he'd be the last. It was annoying enough when he was hanging around getting everyone's attention. But now he was getting Blaine's, and that wasn't something she'd bargained for. _She_ was Blaine's number one. He didn't say it outright, but that didn't matter. She knew.

And she'd be damned if this guy was going to come into The Canary Cage and mess up the good thing she had going.

* * *

Holly had most of the bleeding stopped and the cuts cleaned up by the time the doctor arrived.

"I…I did the best I could, doc," she said, stepping out when he bustled in, wringing her hands with worry. "Like I said, I'm not a doctor."

In her life, Holly had seen gunshot wounds galore. She'd seen men with black eyes get black eyes on top of black eyes. She'd seen men nearly gutted. She'd been in Indian Territory; had been one of three survivors of a raid. She'd seen slaves tied up in the center of town and whipped for trying to run from their masters. But she'd never seen a man thrashed the way Kurt had been.

For as much as she didn't want to be in the presence of this boy's hurt any longer, she didn't want to leave, neither. She might not know his story, but her heart went out to him. He looked young, underfed, and when he woke up, he'd be in intolerable pain.

But Holly needed to know that he _would_ wake up.

"Do you think he's…"

The doctor took a cursory glance at the job Holly had done on Kurt's injuries.

"He'll be fine now, thanks to you," he assured her with a tired smile. "I couldn't have done much better for him."

That was enough for her. She turned and left, taking her tired self to bed for what was left of the night.

The doctor looked over Kurt carefully. He seemed to know, without being told, where to touch, and what he should be looking for. He examined Kurt's stomach, pressing it gently with his fingertips. He watched Kurt's face for a reaction, and checked Kurt's legs for the appearance of fresh blood. He lifted Kurt's lids and checked the whites of his eyes for changes in color, then the examined the skull around the sockets for any breaks. Blaine watched the doctor negotiate Kurt's cuts and injuries, fixing what he could by closing up the gashes. Kurt had passed out long before the doctor arrived. He lay limp, like a ragdoll, and this man, with his bloodied needle and thread, mended him like one, stitching him together.

From the look on the man's scrunched face, it seemed to Blaine that he had stitched Kurt up plenty.

The doctor saw the scrutiny on Blaine's face and sighed.

"Yeah, I've seen these before," the doctor admitted with shame. "Some of these are old. They look worse than they are, believe me. He's lucky, though. He's young and strong. He'll heal up fine. Be good as new in a couple of days."

Blaine wanted to strangle the man. _Be good as new?_ In what world of decency and common sense did this haggard old man actually think that Kurt would be _good as new_ after this?

"You've seen these before?" Blaine asked. The doctor nodded, knowing he'd entered into an argument where he had no ground to stand on. "On him, you mean," Blaine accused. "You've seen him beaten before?"

The doctor moved to the basin of water beside the bed. It had been dumped and refilled at least three times since he'd started his work, and four times prior, he'd been told, when Holly was there. The second he dipped his hands into it, the water turned crimson, and he knew it would need to be dumped and filled again.

"Yes," the doctor admitted. "Yes, I have. His husband brought him by. Afraid he'd broken his arm. Claimed he'd fallen out of his buckboard."

"But you knew he didn't," Blaine said.

"I knew," the doctor said. It wouldn't do him any good to lie. Blaine wouldn't believe him, even if he could make it sound convincing.

"So, did he _fall out of the buckboard_ any other times?" Blaine asked, stalking over to the man. The doctor expected this might go on awhile, so he sat, planting himself on a clean spot on the bed.

"A couple times," the doctor said, drying his hands on the tail of his shirt, the white linen tinged pink.

"And what did you do for him then?" Blaine asked. Blaine didn't know why he needed specifics. It was cut and dry in his mind. He hated David, and Kurt needed to be cared for. But this doctor - he might have some owning up to do.

"I did what I'd do for anyone who stops by with a treatable injury," the doctor said in his defense. "I patched him up and sent him on his way."

Blaine nodded, wholly under-impressed.

"Did you see him for anything else?" Blaine was searching for some indication that someone in this piss-end town saw something and tried to help.

Hoping that Kurt asked for some.

"His husband sent for me once when he" – the doctor looked at Kurt when he jerked suddenly, but he settled back down – "when he cut himself cooking, when he got kicked in the head by his husband's horse, when he fell washing the windows. Got to the point that I'd stop by on my way through to town, to make sure he was getting on alright."

"Well, that's just great of you, doc," Blaine grumbled, smacking his thigh. "Just mother-frickin' fantastic."

"What did you expect me to do, Blaine?" the doctor asked, exhaustion and guilt getting the better of him. "You may not know it up here in your Ivory Tower of moral turpitude, but for us poorer folk living out there in the dirt, the Karofsky name is a powerful one. It holds weight around these parts. Everybody and their grandfather's been in debt to them at one time or another. I'm surprised you haven't been!"

"Yeah, well, I take care of my own business!" Blaine hissed, dropping his volume a notch when Kurt's eyelids fluttered. "I don't rely on handouts from abusers and rapists!"

"No," the doctor said, rising to his feet, "you just make money off them, selling them booze and whores!" Blaine stepped up to him, but the doctor wasn't done, and he wasn't going to be intimidated into keeping silent. "And by the way, your young man here was in neck deep with the Karofskys because his father'd done just that, so you might want to curb your tongue when he comes to!"

Behind him on the bed, Kurt let out a moan, and a tear trickled down his cheek. Blaine didn't know if he'd heard anything in his unconscious state, but the doctor was right. Blaine needed to watch his mouth where Kurt's father was concerned.

Blaine did something then that he didn't often do. He yielded. He left his fight with the doctor, and went to Kurt's side. The doctor might have come to town at this Godawful hour to stitch Kurt up, and for that, Blaine was grateful, but Blaine didn't want to have anything to do with the man now.

Who Blaine supplied alcohol to was a matter of business. He didn't have to ask for a man's life story when he walked through the door. Men came to his establishment to forget themselves, not to be persecuted for their faults.

But doctors had rules. They had oaths. They were supposed to protect people, make them well, and do no harm. In Blaine's eyes, this doctor broke those oaths when he tended Kurt's injuries and then said nothing to no one who might have been able to step in and help.

"Look, Blaine" – The doctor breathed a long sigh, and ran a hand through his hair – "I told him to leave. I told him to head to the city, but he said no. He had a reason for stickin' around, and I had to respect that. There weren't no more I could do."

Blaine didn't turn to acknowledge him. He didn't want to relieve him of his guilt. Forgiveness, in this instance, wasn't his to give.

"Thanks for stitchin' him up again, doc," Blaine said, waving him off. "Sebastian'll see to your bill."

"Yeah," the doctor said wearily. "Anytime."

"Yeah, well, now that he's here, that won't be no time soon," Blaine said, and those words were the last the doctor got before he left the room.

Blaine sat beside Kurt on the bed, finding another patch of clean sheet, and making a mental note to have one of his girls come in and help him with a change. Santana, if she was still awake. Or Kitty.

Brittany was, hopefully, counting sheep.

Sebastian would be the better choice, but Blaine didn't want his help. Blaine saw the way Sebastian looked at Kurt. He didn't like the idea of his bartender harboring any crushes.

Blaine examined the wounds on Kurt's back for himself, this time _really_ looking, and sucked in a breath through his teeth. He'd known things were bad with Kurt, and Blaine had let himself imagine plenty bad, but this somehow was worse than that. It beat out all. David never seemed to let Kurt heal before he bore into him again. Blaine figured that the way the bruises looked on his face were the way things were all over his body, but he was wrong.

If Blaine hadn't decided before that Kurt belonged here, this cinched it.

Blaine had seen similar marks on his girls, not to this extent, but they always healed up, and the men who made them, sometimes they weren't seen in this town again. That was one of the blessings of finding men like the Puckerman brothers – men with plenty of morals, but little conscience.

There was a delicate balance to it, and Noah and Jake had mastered the art.

Blaine had seen many men beat. He'd seen them beat each other to bloody pulps in bar fights, cut each other to ribbons. But these bruises, engraved in Kurt's skin, were unlike any he'd ever seen. There was an anger in the marks on Kurt's back like none Blaine dreamed existed. They were a patchwork of hate. They grew up silver like mountains, and split open, with gorges in between.

They were personal, filled with rage.

In part, a handful were probably because of him. Because Kurt had found The Canary Cage, and tried to make a place for himself here.

But also because Blaine hadn't caught this problem sooner. And then talking to him the way he did in the street?

God! How could he be so dumb?

But it was a fault of ignorance. Blaine didn't know. When his girls came to him, it was after they left their abusers. Blaine didn't have to deal with them. He didn't know the etiquette.

It was then that Blaine saw the irony in the doctor's words. A hundred abusers, and abused men and women passed through his doors every day. He didn't care about the lot of them. Their business was their business, except for his girls.

But Kurt mattered. He mattered a lot.

He reminded Blaine what life was like before he ended up in Lima.

There weren't much soft in Lima, except for his girls. It was a rugged land in a dangerous part of the country. Bedding down with them didn't suit Blaine no more. It never really much had. It was mostly a means to an end, a way to leech the poison from his system, but it never quite did it enough.

Blaine didn't make assumptions that Kurt was soft. He held his own just fine, otherwise he wouldn't still be here. He was mindful of what he said, but that didn't mean he was afraid to speak his mind. But people mold the land, and the land molds them right back. Even his girls were developing raggedy edges from living out here so darn long.

But Kurt, well, maybe Blaine and Kurt could understand one another.

Maybe Kurt would be just soft enough to suit Blaine.

"You're gonna make it, Kurt," Blaine said, and hoped Kurt could hear him. "You're gonna pull through. You're a strong man. You're gonna get yourself to New York. I know it. Just…hold on."

* * *

Jake arrived back in town around two hours later. He had to ride for miles out of his way, circle back, cover his tracks, and then switch roads, giving himself no discernible trail before heading back to Lima. On his way out of town, he'd go over the tracks again to make them even more difficult to decipher.

He stowed David's buckboard and his horse in the stable behind The Canary Cage. He watered the horse, covered the buckboard, and brought Kurt's things up to Blaine's room, where Blaine locked them safely away.

Blaine paid Jake his salary, and his bonus, and bid him a fond farewell. After the damage he'd done that night, Blaine suggested he get as far from Lima as he could, and lay low for a while.

Jake didn't have to be told twice.

But he stayed at The Canary Cage until right before sunrise, to have one last visit with Kitty before he hit the trail again.

Kitty hated these times when both brothers went away on a job. If they were going to go, couldn't they do it one or the other so she could have one of them with her? But that's not how they worked. It was either together, or not at all.

That's why she loved them, and why she could never choose between them.

Over the days that Kurt lay in bed, a high fever took hold, brought on from walking so far with nothing on his body to protect him against the cold. Along with exposure making him weak, something else had invaded his system, through numerous cuts in the soles of his feet. It traveled through his veins and arteries, turning them bluish-black, marking their progress.

Blaine sent Sebastian to fetch the doctor this time, since Kurt's declining health didn't seem an urgency to Tina. The doctor used up every bit of antibiotic he had to fight it, but after Lima's last bout of scarlet fever, his supply was almost nil, so he advised Blaine to go to send away for more.

The medicine came at a great expense, and his girls looked at him funny the minute he footed over a good portion of his wallet without complaint or question.

Tina didn't like it one bit.

The medicine Blaine got for Kurt did its job, killing the infection and ridding his body of the bluish-black gunk, but the high fever stayed, and brought on weird dreams. Day and night, night and day, Kurt relived long lost memories trapped in his subconscious. Voices of the dead came to visit him in the night, bringing with them their tales of woe, and leaving Kurt with very little peace.

He saw visions of his mother's smiling face.

He saw her twirling in the field of lavender out behind their house.

He heard her laughing with him in the orchards as she lifted him up on her shoulders to pick the apples from the low hanging branches, trying to beat out his dad as a much younger Burt Hummel scrambled up the trunk to get the larger fruit from the top.

He felt her holding his hands, her skin soft as rose petals. She taught him to dance, letting him spin her, and pretending to let him dip her, even though he was only six, and shorter than her by over a half.

He saw her face years later, when she started to get sick. His mother, who never frowned and rarely cried, became sadder and sadder, her face drawn, her cheeks hollow, her eyes sinking in, but never losing their sparkle.

He remembered the times he'd caught her in her garden, kneeling over a tomato plant or a bunch of carrots, too tired to stand, weeping into the soft earth.

He remembered how he sat with her in her bed, a child of seven, reading to her from his book of fairy tales because her eyes couldn't see the words, and she didn't have breath left in her body to read them.

He remembered the day they put her to rest, in the simple pine box that his father had spent one whole day and night making for her. He remembered kissing her cold cheek, her skin white with powder to cover the dark veil of death underneath.

When they lowered his mother into the ground, he'd put his favorite stuffed bunny in her casket with her, so she'd never be alone.

His saw stepbrother, Finn, the way he would always remember him.

His superhero.

His first real crush.

The boy Kurt knew would always run to his rescue, until he learned how to rescue himself.

It didn't seem to matter where Kurt was, or whether he could see him. Finn would somehow always be there when Kurt needed him.

Kurt took it for granted that he always would be.

They danced together at their parents' wedding, in front of the whole town. That was the kind of brave that Finn was, willing not only to defy their class or their school, but the whole state of Ohio, to defend the people he loved.

At Finn and Rachel's wedding, Finn looked so handsome that Kurt was actually jealous of Rachel for finding her Prince Charming and for having it be Finn. But Finn came up to him right after the ceremony, before he and his bride walked down the aisle as husband and wife, and hugged him. He thanked him for the work he'd put in to helping them plan the wedding. He said they couldn't have done it without him. He called Kurt 'little brother', and that made everything alright.

He remembered Finn just recently, kneeling on the floor in the living room at Rachel's feet, putting an ear to her stomach to try and hear the baby. This was their ritual every night. Finn would sit with his ear pressed to her belly and listen for any sign. He talked to the baby, sang to the baby, told the baby jokes.

Really awful jokes.

Then he'd laugh. Kurt always accused Finn of being gauche for laughing at his own jokes, but Kurt secretly loved it. Finn had the best laugh.

Finn was so looking forward to being a papa. And he would have been a wonderful one.

A cave in in the mountains was no way for Finn to die. Trapped in the dark. Injured. Frightened. Kurt didn't know that it turned out that way, but it could have. He would never know for sure, and the uncertainty made it worse. He often prayed that Finn was killed instantly in that rockslide.

The alternative was too unthinkable.

His father.

He remembered the day his father first tried to teach him to ride a bike. Kurt was so fearless, so independent. He didn't need anybody's help…till he got on the damned thing. Then he was terrified. He couldn't get the back to move. His father tried to help him by giving it a nudge, but it hit a divot in the rode and tipped over. But Kurt didn't hit the ground. His dad was there. He'd caught him in mid-air. Kurt was so stunned, he burst out laughing.

They would still laugh about that memory, years later.

He saw him and his mother through his father's eyes – all those times Burt Hummel would take a step back and watch his son and his wife just be. Dancing, running, playing tag in the grass. Burt's greatest joy was watching his two favorite people in the world have fun together.

He felt his father's hand in his, standing by side at his mother's funeral. His father had _real_ hands, Kurt always thought. They were mostly rough and calloused from his father working with them. They had lines that crisscrossed and were embedded deep. Where his mother's hands were soft, his father's hands were hard, like stone, but not in a bad way.

Kurt's father was his rock. He was part of the reason he stood so strong. His father was a part of his soul, and Kurt felt that every time he held his father's hand.

His father made him believe every day that he mattered. That he was someone worth knowing. That his feelings were valid – even the ones that other people didn't approve of.

His father helped instill the groundwork for the man Kurt wanted to be – through his words and through his actions.

His father wasn't infallible by any means, but he tried. He tried harder than anyone Kurt had ever met, and till the last day Kurt saw him, he was still trying.

It was difficult for Kurt to come to grips with the fact that his father was gone. He could deny it all he wanted, say it wasn't so because he hadn't seen it. But his heart knew different. His heart knew without him needing to get word from anyone that the man he looked up to his whole life, the one person who fought so much to know him and understand him and love him, no longer walked the earth.

His father passing didn't just mean he'd lost a person.

Kurt had lost a part of his soul.

The day his fever broke, Kurt woke to the sound of a voice in his room, singing a familiar tune. Like the piano at The Canary Cage, his mind followed the rhythm, believing it was meant for him. It was sad, but also kind of sweet. It was slow when he thought it should have been upbeat. He chased it, hoping it would lead him where he needed to go.

As he crept closer and closer to consciousness, he realized vaguely that he was listening to _his_ voice singing.

And he wasn't singing alone.

Kurt blinked, eyelids heavy, and he groaned with the effort. It took almost as much strength to blink his eyes as it would normally to stand, so he decided that blinking was all he was going to shoot for today.

Kurt could scarcely move his head on the pillow. Once open, his eyes couldn't get the hang of focusing together, but even shrouded by a haze that shifted when he blinked, Kurt recognized the head of honey-blonde curls in his line of sight, and the person they were attached to, sitting at the foot of the bed, watching him with relieved sky blue eyes.

Rose pink lips smiled, and a gentle hand patted his leg.

"Hey, Kurt," Brittany said.

"H-hey, Brittany," Kurt said, trying out his voice and finding it gravelly to his ears.

"You sing real pretty," Brittany said, a compliment that seemed contrary to what Kurt knew. "Even when you're asleep."

"Thanks," Kurt croaked. He winced. Either he inexplicably sang better unconscious, or the girl's ears had been irreparably damaged by the abominable piano playing from downstairs. "So do you."

"Aw, thanks," she said, blushing close to demure, "but that ain't nothin'. You have an amazing gift." Brittany scooted closer, folding her legs underneath her body. "It'll be nice to have you singin' for us. And playin' the piano."

"Blaine told you about that?" Kurt asked, mildly surprised that it would come up.

"Oh, yeah," Brittany said. "He were all sorts of excited."

"He was?" Kurt found it hard to believe. He figured Blaine's asking him to sing was a courtesy – a gamble, really, since he only had Kurt's speaking voice to go off of, but Blaine couldn't do much worse than the pianist The Canary Cage had working for it now.

"Yup," Brittany said, bouncing the bed unintentionally. Kurt hissed, the movement jarring his stitched wounds, and Brittany gasped. "I'm sorry, Kurt! I forgot!"

"It's alright," Kurt said, trying to raise a hand to wave her worry away, but his hand didn't want to lift. "How's Blaine doin'?" he asked, curious, but also to change the subject.

"He's worried for you," Brittany said seriously. "He left me to watch you, make sure you're alright, and that ya don't need nothin' until he come back."

"Come back?" Kurt asked. "How long's he been here?"

"Since you come in," she said, rolling her eyes up to think. "A few days? Maybe more."

"Really?" Kurt mused, flattered by the man's concern. He regretted that he'd earned that concern because of David. Kurt had gotten Blaine Anderson's attention, but it came at the price of being battered when it should have come for something else – like his playing, or his singing, or his ability to create.

Kurt didn't want Blaine developing affections for him because he felt sorry for him. Relationships like that never went off well.

"Oh, yeah," Brittany said. "He leaves from time to time to make sure things are alright downstairs, but not so much since he hired another gun hand. I think he went to get himself a clean shirt, a shave, and a bite to eat. He looked famished."

Blaine was always clean shaven when Kurt saw him, so close that his skin looked baby soft. Blaine with stubble, or a five o'clock shadow…it hadn't crossed Kurt's mind.

But it was, and Kurt longed to shut his eyes and keep thinking about it.

"Aren't you hungry?" Kurt asked. He wanted a little time to lie quietly and daydream, but he also felt bad that his convalescing under the saloon's roof had thrown off so many schedules…especially Blaine's.

This was his business. He didn't need to waste his time playing nursemaid.

"I was," Brittany said, "but Santana brought me sumthin', so I'm all taken care of."

Kurt sighed, and regretted it. His chest felt like it had been pounded on by a meat grinder. He prayed that when he finally got to see the marks on his body that those wouldn't be found.

Brittany leaned in, a thoughtful look in her gaze. "You really gonna go to New York City?"

"Yes," Kurt said, attempting to sound confident, though so many doubts had dug roots in his head and started to flower. "Yes, I am."

"Well, that's smart," Brittany said. "I think you'd make out good in New York. A voice like yours…" As if by a bizarre sense of irony, Kurt began to cough, his dry throat objecting to all this talk without a single sip of water to lubricate it. Brittany hopped up and rushed to his side. She grabbed the damp cloth from the basin of clean water by the bed, wrung it out, and pressed it to his mouth. He pursed his lips and sucked at it, grateful to have the moisture on his parched tongue. "I wanted to go to New York City," she continued. "Be a dancer on a real stage. You know, not in a place like this."

"Why didn't you?" Kurt muttered, keeping his lips pressed against the cloth lest she think he was done and put it back in its basin. He was so thirsty, he felt ready to crack and crumble into dust.

"Because I don't think I can make it there," she said, using the tail of the cloth to wet Kurt's forehead. "Not alone, I mean. I ain't that smart."

"Brittany," Kurt said. "That's a horrible thing to say."

"Well, that's what my dad always said." Brittany dipped the cloth again, wrung it out, and put it back against Kurt's lips. "And he's kinda right. I ain't book smart. Not like Blaine, or Santana, or Kitty. I'm lucky I have them. They help me. They tell me what to charge, how much I give Blaine, and they help me keep my money safe, so customers don't find it and steal it."

"Wouldn't one of them be willing to go with you?" Kurt asked, suddenly invested in this girl's dream as if it were his own.

One of them should make it to New York at least.

"Well, Kitty and Jake and Noah have an understanding," Brittany explained. "She wouldn't want to go nowhere without them. And Santana…I can't ask her to leave. She's supportin' her grandma with the money she makes here. She's sick and she's old…and she's mean…"

"I still think you should consider going," Kurt said. "If you want to be a dancer, there are schools you can attend. Schools where they let you stay so you won't need to find a place while you're there."

Brittany looked excited for a second, but only a second.

"Nah. My papa said that the only girls that make it in the city are pretty girls. And I ain't pretty."

"Did your papa tell you that?" Kurt asked. "That you're not pretty?"

"Yeah." Brittany looked at her skirt, smoothing out wrinkles that resisted being smoothed. This skirt looked older than the skirt she mostly wore – her favorite blue one. The one that matched her eyes.

Kurt wondered why the change.

"If you don't mind my saying," Kurt said, reaching out a hand to touch the back of hers, "your father sounds like a horrible person."

Brittany smiled, focused on Kurt's fingers, the nails jagged, the skin not much better. She inched her hand closer when she saw he was having trouble moving. His fingertips lightly brushed her skin as she slid her hand underneath his.

"I don't mind you sayin' that," she said. "I guess I make it sound that way, but, you know, it's alright. My papa and I, we were all we had, and…"

Her eyes went sad, fixed on the blanket beneath them, tracing the dots of dried blood soaked through from Kurt's wounds that hadn't completely healed.

"Did he…pass on?" Kurt asked. "Is that how you ended up here?"

Brittany's lower lip quivered. She nibbled on it to make it stop.

"I'm sorry, Brittany," Kurt said. "I shouldn't be asking. You don't have to tell me if you don't want."

"It's fine," Brittany said. "It ain't a secret around here. My papa liked to drink, and he ran up a hefty tab drinkin' here. One night, Blaine came collectin', but my papa didn't have a cent to his name, so Blaine offered to take me instead. Then he told my papa never to come back."

Kurt was astonished.

"That's awful," Kurt said.

It sounded barbaric. How could Blaine do such a thing? Collecting on a man's daughter because he didn't have money to pay for his drink? Why didn't he cut him off?

There had to be something else to it. There just had to be. That didn't sound like Blaine. Brittany had to have left something out.

"It ain't all that bad," Brittany said. "I like it here. Bein' frank, I like it here better than with my papa. There's heat during the winter, and hot water and food. I got a bed to sleep in instead of the floor. Blaine takes care of us girls real good, and he doesn't make us do nothin' we don't want, if that's what you're thinking. 'sides, if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have met Santana and Kitty and the rest." Brittany smiled up at him. "And you."

"I guess that makes us friends, huh?" Kurt said with a weak smile.

"If you don't mind me sayin'," she said, "I think that makes us family. Unless you wouldn't want to be family with the likes of us."

Kurt got his fingers to wrap around her hand, and he held on as tight as he could.

"Brittany, I think that sounds just fine."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Discussion of child abuse and sexual abuse between a parent and a child.**

"So your grandma's kinda mean, huh?"

Santana stopped tucking Kurt's sheet in at the foot of the bed and eyed him with suspicion.

"Who's been talkin' to you about my dear, sweet _abuela_?" she asked sternly. "Was it Kitty? It was Kitty, right? Because I tell ya right now, if she's been sayin' one word about my _abuela_ , I'm gonna toss her out on her ass so far they won't see her for the county line. I don't care what Blaine says about it."

"No, no, no!" Kurt replied, shaking his aching head, hoping to save Kitty from an unintended ass-whooping. "It was Brittany. She told me. She said your grandma was mean…a-and old." Santana made an insulted clicking noise with her tongue, and Kurt thought - _Why?_ _Why did I add that?_ He clamped his teeth together tight before he said something else asinine. Santana stood straight and put her hands on her hips, staring Kurt down with sultry brown eyes that could light up one minute, and the next, look downright villainous.

He hoped he didn't tread into sensitive territory with his remark. He had just woken up, and was only looking to start conversation. He'd mulled over his earlier talk with Brittany, and found her comment about Santana's grandma funny. He thought Santana might get a chuckle out of it, too. Santana had become as dear to him at The Canary Cage as Brittany – her raw strength, her no-nonsense attitude, how she bent to no one's will but her own. But especially the fierce way she loved and protected Brittany. Kurt felt glad for Brittany on this. She deserved that kind of love, and Santana seemed best suited to give it. They were sort of an odd couple, when it came down to it. Where Brittany acted childlike and a little naïve, Santana was more rough and tumble, with a head full of street smarts and a sharp tongue. But they fit one another like a hand did a glove.

Santana fascinated Kurt, but she also kind of terrified him.

"Oh, well, that's alright then," she said, finishing up her task. "And she's right. My grandma is kinda mean."

"Any particular reason?" Kurt didn't know why he found himself asking personal questions of the girls. He hadn't before, but so many people at The Canary Cage seemed to know the ins and outs of his personal business. Most of them had seen him naked, and bereft of clothes wasn't even the limit to the vulnerabilities they'd witnessed. He'd been ripped open in front of them, torn to pieces. On top of that, he hadn't figured out how they'd dealt with his "natural processes" while he'd been unconscious, and he was afraid to ask. All he knew was that every time he woke, he was clean and dry, on pristine white sheets. There were only a handful of people that Kurt guessed would be willing to volunteer in that capacity. If he thought on it too hard, he might never be able to look anyone in the face again.

But in light of his full disclosure, he was beginning to think that turnabout was fair play.

Santana shrugged. "She doesn't think I should be doin' what I'm doin' with my life."

"Working at a saloon?" Kurt guessed.

"No" - Santana moved to a chair by the bed and sat - "being with Brittany."

"What does she have against Brittany?" Kurt asked. "She's the sweetest thing."

"She thinks I'm wastin' my time with her," Santana said, crossing her legs and adjusting her skirts over her knee. "She thinks I should get married to a proper _caballero_ and settle down, live on a farm, raise pigs and chickens, and eventually pop out twelve kids like she did."

"So, the work isn't an issue?" Kurt asked.

"It puts food in her stomach, buys her medication, keeps a roof over her head," Santana said, "so no. Not really."

Kurt shook his head, which caused him pain and made him dizzy, but he couldn't think of a more appropriate gesture to express his confusion.

"She has no problem with you sleeping with men for money," he surmised, "but she has a problem with you and Brittany?"

"Yup. That just about sums it up." Santana nodded. A wry smile tugged at her lips. Kurt was amazed how at peace she seemed with her grandma's attitude. She must have dealt with it for most of her life until she came to Blaine's place. Being at the saloon, living with Brittany instead of with her grandma, must have made it easier to handle her bigotry. Kurt couldn't imagine what his life would have been like at home if his parents hadn't been supportive of who he was.

To be told that he shouldn't love where he wanted to love, what would be the point of living?

"Wow. That's…okay," Kurt said. He couldn't come up with an appropriate response, but Santana understood.

"Yeah," she said. "Well, that's my _abuela_."

"And you're still supporting her? Even though she doesn't support you?"

"Well, of course," Santana said. "She's my _abuela_."

"Right," Kurt said. It made as much sense as it didn't. "Hey, what's the beef between you and Kitty?"

Santana's eyes widened, sincerely perplexed by his question.

"No beef," she said. "Kitty's one of my best friends in this place. A real peach. Why d'ya ask?"

Kurt's face went completely blank. "Uh…no reason."

"Santana! Santana, come quick! Hey, Kurt." Sebastian leaned in at the door, beckoning Santana out, taking a moment to give Kurt a smile.

"What is it, Sebastian?" she groaned. "Can't ya see I'm busy entertainin'?"

Sebastian's gaze bounced between the two – Santana, sitting in the wooden chair permanently placed by the bedside, dressed in her usual sporting girl get-up; and Kurt, propped on pillows, naked beneath Blaine's white linen bedsheets. Sebastian stammered and blushed, and Kurt chuckled.

"I-I'm sorry," Sebastian said, "but some fella downstair's lookin' for you. Says his name's Sandy? Sandy Ryerson?"

"Sandy Ryerson?" Santana repeated. She stared at Sebastian, expecting him to elaborate, but he looked as lost as she did.

"Yeah. Don't you know him?"

Santana thought a moment, then shrugged one shoulder.

"I guess it don't matter," she said, getting to her feet. "He knows me, he asked for me, I'll go do my thing. But who in the heck names their kid _Sandy Ryerson_?"

"Got me," Sebastian said, stepping to the side to clear a path for Santana as she made her way to the door.

"See ya later, Kurt," Santana said, blowing him a kiss. "You be a good boy."

"I will," Kurt said. "See ya."

Santana held fast at the door, looking at Sebastian with a warning in her eyes before she headed off down the hall. Kurt didn't see, but the warning wasn't for him. It was meant for Sebastian, and Sebastian knew full well what Santana was trying to convey.

Blaine had grown very fond of Kurt during the time he'd been at the saloon. There wasn't a soul who spent more than five minutes in The Canary Cage who didn't notice it. And that meant Kurt was off-limits. Blaine hadn't _told_ Sebastian so in so many words, but he didn't need to. It was an understood rule. The Canary Cage was Blaine's place, and whatever he wanted underneath its roof, he got.

Blaine was Sebastian's boss, and Sebastian respected him, but on the topic of who got to call on Kurt, Sebastian didn't care. He didn't stand by all of Blaine's unwritten rules (of which there were many). But even if Blaine had forbade Sebastian from pursuing an interest in Kurt, who was he to make that decision? Sebastian didn't see how Blaine could stake a claim to a _person_. People weren't property. How was Blaine's laying claim to Kurt any different than what David had done, isolating Kurt from his family and the rest of the world? Controlling him through coercion and fear?

Besides, Sebastian met Kurt first. They'd talked more and, in Sebastian's opinion, had a great deal more in common. There was no reason why Sebastian shouldn't keep being friends with Kurt just because Blaine fancied him.

"Hey, Kurt," Sebastian said, shuffling his feet as he stood in the hallway. "Would you mind if I came in and had a visit?"

"Not at all," Kurt said, patting a space on the bed next to him. "I've missed talking to you."

"That's nice to hear." Sebastian walked in with staggered steps, waiting to be certain that Blaine wasn't anywhere around before he got too comfortable. "That's nice of you to say."

"I'm not trying to be nice," Kurt said. "It's true. I might never have come in to The Canary Cage if it weren't for you. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Well, I don't know 'bout that," Sebastian said, blushing again the way Kurt knew he would. In a way, Kurt had hoped to make him blush. "I think you would have found your way in here on your own. I'm just glad you did."

"I am, too," Kurt agreed. Sebastian's gaze met Kurt's. So intense were his green eyes, it made Kurt shudder…the way Blaine's gaze made him shudder…and Kurt didn't know whether he liked it or not. "So, how have things been downstairs?" Kurt asked. He didn't want for the air between them to become awkward. Kurt had a hunch that first day that Sebastian had a crush on him, and to be frank, Kurt had liked him, too. Sebastian was a breath of fresh air compared to most of the people in Lima, and quite a few from Defiance. Kurt didn't know Sebastian's history, where he hailed from or how he came to be here, but he was such a genuine soul, unjaded by the hardships of life. Kurt had seen other men come in to the gambling hall to drink their sorrows away, taking up with the girls, and even starting petty squalls as a way to forget their troubles. But Sebastian met them with a smile on his face and a kind word regardless.

Kurt imagined that, for some, Sebastian's kindness, with no ulterior motive attached, might be the only kindness they'd receive that day. Kurt wished for that kind of tolerance, but even before David had beaten him, he'd lost a good deal of what he'd had in him.

"Nuthin' much interesting," Sebastian said. "Everyone's still keepin' pretty quiet after what happened…you know…to you and all." Sebastian's gaze drifted, regretful that he hadn't censored himself better. Kurt took his hand, squeezing it as best he could, and running a thumb over his knuckles. Sebastian's hands were strong. Kurt could feel it when Sebastian tensed beneath his touch. His skin wasn't smooth, but it wasn't so rough as David's. And he was warm. Comfortingly warm.

"Is that usually the way things go?" Kurt asked.

"Sometimes," Sebastian said. "Not often. But what happened to you, and then Blaine calling out his hired guns, it spooked people. Without law here, people don't worry too much about being on their best behavior. But when Jake and Noah show up, people tend to toe the line."

"Jake and Noah?" Kurt asked. His memories of the night he came to The Canary Cage had been blurry, and when the laudanum wore off, he fought to remember what happened after he walked through the doors and fell to the floor. Brittany had mentioned Jake and Noah. It sounded like they were close with Kitty. Kurt was curious how that worked, the both of them together and her, but he thought it indecent to ask. Other than that, Kurt couldn't remember hearing those names before.

"The Puckerman brothers," Sebastian clarified. "Blaine's regular hit men."

"Are they dangerous?" Kurt asked, intrigued. "Do they have a price on their heads?" Kurt became suddenly giddy, eager to know everything Sebastian did about these two men. It felt unreal, like Sebastian was reading to him from a dime novel - one about rogue gunslingers roaming town to town, picking up bounties and getting chased down to Mexico by the law - not recounting the details of real life events that Kurt had been a part of. Kurt sat up and scooted closer, the sheet he had pulled up to his neck sliding down his chest, exposing skin littered with what remained of purple bruises turning a sickly yellow-green.

But Sebastian didn't notice the bruises. His breath caught in his throat for very different reasons.

"Th-they're nice enough guys over a smoke and drink," Sebastian said, voice wavering as he caught sight of the smooth planes of Kurt's chest. Kurt was actually a muscular man beneath those baggy clothes David forced him to wear. Sebastian hadn't noticed before, but he had only seen Kurt unclothed the one time, and Sebastian wasn't focusing on Kurt's physique then. Blaine didn't call Sebastian for help when Kurt's bedsheets needed changing, taking on the job himself, and relying on Holly or the other girls for assistance. But Sebastian could see here that Kurt had a fine build. He was a handsome man, and no amount of whipping could scrape that away, because on Kurt, it didn't only go skin deep. "They like to joke around with the girls. They'd never raise a hand to any of them. But they're both lethal with a pistol. And a man would have to be out of his mind to get anywhere near Jake and that Bowie knife of his."

"Wow," Kurt said. The chill air hit him, and he covered up again, to Sebastian's dismay, "I wish I could remember them." Then it struck Kurt, as snippets of discussions and images caromed at him, that he had no idea what Blaine had had done to David. Did he have him beaten? Tarred and feathered? Shot? Hung? Run out of town?

Was David _alive_? And if he was, was he still in possession of all his limbs?

"Kurt?" He felt a hand touch his forehead, then his cheek. He saw Sebastian's troubled eyes search his face. "Kurt, are you feeling alright? You look like you're gonna be sick. Maybe you should lie back down. Do you want me to go fetch the doctor?"

"No," Kurt said. "No, I'm alright. A little tired, but that's all." There was a moment when he considered asking Sebastian about David, but he decided it was a question more appropriate for Blaine to answer, seeing as he was the one who ordered the deed done.

And by the way Kurt's stomach tried to wring itself empty when he thought on it, for now, Kurt didn't want to know.

"Do you want me to go?" Sebastian reluctantly asked.

"No." Kurt jumped at that. He didn't like being alone in Blaine's room. It got quiet too quickly, even with the music and laughter from downstairs rising up through the floorboards. Kurt didn't like sitting alone with only his thoughts for company. There were too many ghosts he hadn't come to terms with. Every time he shut his eyes, they came calling, collecting on old favors, needing him to remember them. "No, I don't want that. I, uh…actually, I've been listening to life stories today. I was hoping you might consent to telling me yours."

Kurt thought Sebastian would launch right into it, spinning a yarn about his days on some quaint family farm out West, maybe with a younger sibling to contend with, sharing a room and fighting over chores, throwing snowballs in the winter and swimming together in an old rainwater pond in the summer. Or maybe he was from the city, and had some exciting stories of big city life to impart, like the saloon owner back in Defiance had. But Sebastian's face turned solemn, his eyes dropping down to the sheet and their hands, Kurt with one still resting over his.

"Do you…do you think you could get to know me a little better first before I start dishin' out the details of my past?" Sebastian asked.

"Oh," Kurt said, taken aback, his face going red. "I'm sorry. That was rude of me. I shouldn't pry. I don't know what's come over me in here. I think maybe I'm going a little bit stir crazy…"

"No, it's alright," Sebastian said. "No harm done. And considering, you know, you have a right to ask. I mean, you've been so generous about opening up to me. I should return the favor."

"No," Kurt insisted, "you're under no obligation."

"I just" - Sebastian's face took on an interesting expression – unreadable, and yet his eyes became so expressive, so full of disquiet and sadness, Kurt wished he could infer the things that Sebastian hid away - "I want to be judged on the person I am now, not the one I was…and the things I had no control over."

"That's fair enough," Kurt said.

Sebastian nodded and went quiet. Then, that awkward silence, the one Kurt was hoping to avoid, reared its ugly head.

"So," Sebastian said, feeling it, too, "what should we do while I'm here, huh? Play cards?"

"I've never been too good at cards," Kurt admitted.

"Ah, there ain't nothin' to it," Sebastian said, "as long as you keep your eyes open and don't get in over your head."

"You'll have to teach me then," Kurt said, "but when my head's less foggy. All I've been is in over my head lately."

"I'll take you up on that," Sebastian said, finding that easy glee he seemed to have where Kurt was involved. "But I guess that means chess's out then, too."

"It was kind of out to begin with," Kurt chuckled. "I'm an awful chess player."

"We'll put that on the list of things I'll need to help you with then," Sebastian said. "I can read to you." Sebastian pulled forward and lowered his voice. "I think Kitty's got some filthy books in her room. You know, the kinds with drawings in the margins."

Sebastian wiggled his eyebrows and Kurt laughed out loud. It shot needles through his skin when he did, but it felt good to laugh. It felt good to do anything with the sense of freedom he had being here at The Canary Cage, surrounded by caring people and friendly faces. It felt good to feel human again, and not like a whipping post - an outlet for someone else's anger. At the house with David, Kurt's body wasn't his own, his life wasn't his own, and he had no control over what happened to either. But here, he felt safe and happy. It felt the closest to a home since he'd left Defiance.

"Sure," Kurt replied. "Why not?"

Sebastian hadn't expected that as an answer. His jaw dropped and his face went bright scarlet, causing Kurt to laugh even more.

Neither Kurt nor Sebastian heard Blaine come down the hall. He walked barefoot, having gone to one of the other empty rooms to wash up, since he didn't want to disturb Kurt by dragging in the tub and splashing water on the floor. He'd left Kurt snoozing, and in Santana's care. So why he was sitting upright in bed, bare chest uncovered, with Sebastian by his side, of all people, was beyond him.

But it was nice to hear Kurt laugh. He just wished he'd had a hand in making it happen.

Blaine stood in the doorway to get his fill of it before he broke their party up.

"Mr. Smythe," he said, announcing his presence outside the room. Blaine's voice made Sebastian flinch a hair, but it made Kurt smile, "there are thirsty customers downstairs who'd like to get their drinks sometime today."

"Yes, boss," Sebastian responded. "That's why Kitty's tendin' the bar for me."

"Yeah, well, Kitty's gotta work," Blaine said, walking in to the room. Kurt watched him stroll in, brown pants undone at the top and his white shirt hanging open, hair damp and running wild with curls he normally kept tamed. He hadn't shaved, but the scruff on his jaw wasn't scruffy or unruly. He looked sinful and dangerous - so utterly in control of his surroundings, it was frightening. Frightening but exciting. It wasn't until Kurt's chest started to hurt that he realized he was holding his breath. "We all gotta work here. That includes you."

"I was watchin' him for Santana," Sebastian argued. "She had a customer. I didn't want to leave him alone."

"And I'm thankful," Blaine said, though he sounded anything but, "but now I can take over."

The two men stared each other down in silence, and Kurt knew he'd have to intervene. He gave Sebastian's hand a pat.

"I'll talk to you later, okay?" Kurt said, not dismissing Sebastian, but not entirely thrilled by the pissing contest going on between these two, discussing him as if he weren't sitting right there. There was also the matter of Sebastian's job. Kurt wouldn't be able to forgive himself if Sebastian lost it because of him.

"Alright," Sebastian said. "Later it is." He let himself focus on Kurt and forget Blaine for a second, probably not the wisest thing to do under the circumstances. He could feel Blaine watching him, impatiently waiting for him to make himself scarce. "I look forward to it."

Sebastian stood to go because he had to. There was no way around it. He could argue further, but then Blaine could up and fire him. Sebastian would do fine without the job, but then he might not be able to see Kurt, and Sebastian didn't want to conceive of that. Sebastian and Blaine bristled when they passed one another, but then Sebastian was gone, and Blaine was left, hovering at the end of the bed, brooding and beautiful.

And grinning at Kurt.

Which made possibly defying Blaine's wishes difficult for Kurt to do, but he had to.

He waited till he heard Sebastian descend the staircase at the end of the hall. He didn't want Sebastian to think he was fighting his battles for him. He didn't want to wound Sebastian's pride.

"Don't be angry with Sebastian. I like it when he visits," Kurt piped up.

Kurt was grateful to Blaine for everything he'd done. Kurt might not be alive if not for him, and he definitely wouldn't be free of David. But did Blaine think that the money he'd spent on Kurt's care gave him some kind of hold over him? If so, then Kurt needed to find a way of paying him back…and fast.

"Of course, darlin'," Blaine said, sitting where Sebastian had, though an inch or two closer to Kurt. "I know you do. And I'm not gonna keep him from seein' you. But for now, I need him to work. He can come back later, I promise." Blaine said the words, but he didn't sound too pleased by them. But they pleased Kurt. He saw it in the smile returning to Kurt's face, and Blaine took that smile as a victory. "Besides, I'd like a little time with you to myself, if that's alright."

"Yeah," Kurt said. "That's alright."

"Good," Blaine said. "How'd ya sleep, handsome?"

"Uh…" Kurt frowned, derailed in his answer by Blaine calling him _handsome_. Kurt didn't know what he looked like, but he knew it was bad. He saw the pity on Kitty's face when she came in to change the water in the basin by his bedside. He saw the grief in Holly's eyes, and the guilt in the doctor's, when they stopped by to check his stitches. David must have done a number on him. For Blaine to call him _handsome_ seemed like an insult. Like Blaine was mocking him.

He didn't honestly think Blaine would, but that's how it felt.

"Oh, I see," Blaine said. "Let's try this again." He brought his face as close to Kurt's as he dared, close enough that Kurt felt the heat from Blaine's mouth against his lips when he spoke. "Hello, handsome," Blaine said in a low, soothing voice. "How did you sleep?"

"F-fine," Kurt stuttered, breathing in the clean scent of Blaine's skin, and along with it, something cool and sweet, like peppermint. Was it toothpaste? Or could he have been sucking on a peppermint stick? He did say he had a thing for candy. If Kurt could take a taste, he'd know for sure. "I-I slept fine, thank you."

"Good," Blaine said, pausing to glance down at Kurt's mouth before he backed away again. "It's nice to know that my bed's been treatin' you right."

Kurt was mesmerized by Blaine's eyes, by the depth of their color, their shifting shades of whiskey, green, and gold, that it took Blaine's words a moment to register with Kurt's frazzled brain.

"But, if I'm sleeping in your bed, where've you been sleeping?"

"In here," Blaine answered, not concerned with how forward that might sound. "On the floor, and in that chair."

Kurt took a look at the chair when Blaine mentioned it. It was a plain, hardwood chair, like the sort they used downstairs in the gambling hall, not a chair made for sleeping. Not like Kurt's mother's rocking chair. Kurt couldn't imagine a more uncomfortable place to sleep.

"Oh, Blaine," he moaned. "That's terrible. I'm sorry."

"I'm not asking for apologies, darlin'," Blaine said, "and I'm not taking any, neither."

"But, you could sleep in another room, couldn't you?" Kurt asked. "In a real bed?" Kurt assumed there had to be one or two empty rooms in The Canary Cage, or the cathouse next door. Rooms with a bed where Blaine could hunker down and get a decent night's sleep. Why choose the floor, or a chair with no arms and no cushions to sleep on, when there's a bed available for the night?

"'Cus then I wouldn't be here if you needed me," Blaine answered right after Kurt thought it.

How could Kurt argue with that?

He couldn't, and Blaine banked on that.

Kurt felt a bit outside his reach around Blaine. Blaine had to know exactly what he was doing when he talked to Kurt that way. He used his charm to great advantage. The way Blaine talked; the way he gazed into Kurt's eyes, wandering to his lips for a second and licking his own; the closer Blaine's hand crept toward Kurt's hand; made it difficult for Kurt to raise the important concern of setting ground rules.

"Look, Blaine," Kurt said, "I don't know how to tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, and I want you to know that I'm gonna pay you back. Every cent you spent on me."

"Of course, darlin'. But how about you don't worry about that for right now?" Blaine didn't want Kurt to stress over money matters, but Blaine didn't want to discuss it for personal reasons. Kurt getting better and paying him back meant Kurt leaving. Blaine, in recent days, had a hope that he kept to himself – one where Kurt decided not to leave The Canary Cage, where he didn't go to New York to follow his dream.

Where he didn't leave Blaine behind.

"Alright," Kurt agreed, relieved to postpone that discussion for a while, "but I do have a few questions for you, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind. Ask away."

"I'm…not…ready to know what happened to David," Kurt said, "but I need to know…you said…my stepmother and my sister-in-law, that you'd help keep them safe…"

"And I did," Blaine assured him. "I sent Noah to go see to them. They should be well on their way out of Ohio by now."

"Noah?" Kurt felt nauseous. "Noah Puckerman?" Sebastian said the Puckerman brothers were killers – ruthless in Jake's case. He couldn't imagine Carole and Rachel being in better hands, and yet, he prayed that their association with him didn't get them into more trouble.

"Yes," Blaine said, feeling Kurt's anxiety surface. "He's a good man, Kurt, and he's good at what he does. They're gonna be fine. I told him to send word when they were safely stowed away. I expect we should hear from them any day now."

Kurt didn't seem much restored by Blaine's words, his assurances that the two dearest people in the world to Kurt were safe in the hands of a hired killer, but Kurt had to trust that Blaine knew what he was doing when he chose Noah for the job.

"So, how do things work around here?" Kurt asked, moving on to take his mind off it. He had no reason to worry about Carole and Rachel (and the baby! Dear Lord, he'd forgotten about the baby!) until he heard otherwise, so he had to wait and have faith. "I mean, the people who work for you, Sebastian and the girls" - Blaine's eyes darkened at Sebastian's name coming first off Kurt's lips – "do you guys have an understanding? Or a contract of some kind?"

"Well, Sebastian don't need a contract. I pay him a salary, and he's free to come and go as he pleases." Blaine said it sort of harsh. He saw it in Kurt's eyes, and he softened up a bit. "But my girls, we have a contract. I give them room and board, and protection. They give me a percentage of their earnings. They have a debt to me from the outset, and they work toward paying it off. For that, they stay for a length of time. They can buy out their contracts whenever they want to go."

"So, I'll be like your girls, I suppose," Kurt said.

"How do you reckon?" Blaine asked, amused by the concept.

"Well, you're giving me room and board, and protection. And I have a debt to you I need to pay from the start. So, we'll need a contract, right? One that binds me to you for a time?"

"I guess you're right" - Blaine hadn't thought of it like that, but it sounded good to him - "but we can talk that over later. When you're back on your feet. I don't want you in a rush to get out of that bed."

If Kurt hadn't been single-minded in his need to settle his debt, he would have choked over those words.

"But every day that I'm here and not working…"

"Is a day that you're doin' the intelligent thing and getting yourself well," Blaine said. "Don't go makin' a martyr of yourself over money. Money don't matter more than you. Remember that."

"I will." Kurt felt Blaine was treating him like a child, but he'd let Blaine have his way this once. Kurt couldn't make it to the wash basin by the bed yet anyhow. What would he have done if Blaine agreed he should get right to work? Crawl? "I have another question for you, if it's not too much trouble."

"Okay," Blaine agreed, "but after that, I think you should try to get some more sleep."

"Tired of me already?" Kurt asked with an eyebrow crooked.

"Never." Blaine smirked. "I want you to get your strength back." Blaine's hand found Kurt's and rested over it. Kurt couldn't tell if his skin was soft or rough, calloused or smooth, because the second Blaine's hand touched his, his soul left his body. "So ask me your question so I can see you back in that bed."

Kurt shivered. If Blaine didn't stop talking that way, Kurt would never again be able to form a coherent sentence.

"I was just curious" - Kurt took the bold move to flip his hand over beneath Blaine's and lace their fingers together. The smile on Blaine's face when he did became effervescent. "How much would it take to release Brittany from her contract?"

"What? Why? Did she say she wants out?"

"No," Kurt rushed, hoping that he didn't get the girl in trouble by posing his question. "No, she said nothing of the sort. We were talking and…well, I found out, she has a dream similar to mine, and I was wondering why she just doesn't go for it."

"Oh," Blaine said, brow wrinkling like this was the first he'd heard of it. "She can leave whenever she wants. She don't officially have a contract with me."

"She doesn't? But she told me that" - Kurt debated saying it the way he understood it, because it made Blaine seem like an underhanded libertine – "you took her in exchange…to pay off her father's tab."

Blaine scoffed. "Yeah, well, that was the only way I was gonna get her away from that man."

Here was a light at the end of Kurt's tunnel, the half of the story he hadn't been told, the thing he could hold on to when he doubted Blaine's intentions again, but he still felt in the dark.

"I don't understand."

Blaine sighed. "How much has Britt told you about her father?"

"Not much," Kurt admitted. "Just that he was a drunkard. He had a high tab with you. You threatened him, and when he said he didn't have the money to pay you, you took her off his hands as payment."

"Yeah, well, that's the watered down version of it," Blaine said. "Seeing as the two of you are such good friends, I don't think she'd mind me telling you the rest."

Kurt might have disagreed, might have said it didn't matter, but he wanted to understand Brittany better, and if her road here was a traumatic one, as his had been, he didn't want to put her through having to remember it.

"Her mother died when she was about twelve," Blaine began, "when Brittany had just become a woman, so to say. And the minute her father could appreciate her assets, he started making use of them. He also let his buddies make use of them, you know, for a fee."

"Oh no." Kurt felt sick for the poor girl, for dear Brittany. He had no idea.

"When she cried about it, or she talked back, or she became too sick to do what he wanted, he would beat her with his belt. He left marks all over. Not as bad as yours were, mind you, because he was never sober enough to aim competently, but they still looked mighty painful. He used to lock her up in the cellar when he went out drinkin', but she figured out how to escape, so he started draggin' her into town with him to keep her from runnin' off. Drug her straight down Main Street once by her hair, kickin' and screamin'…"

"That's…that's horrible." Kurt's fingers tightened in Blaine's grasp. Blaine's eyes darted toward their hands, fingers woven together.

One.

"I met her on her sixteenth birthday," he continued, lingering a second more on how Kurt's skin looked pressed against his. "I watched her father come into my place night after night, saw him drink his fill, saw him try to pawn off Brittany on my customers, but no one was stupid enough to bite. One night, he brought her in with a black eye, and a goose egg on her forehead the size of my fist" – He made a fist of his free hand and held it up so Kurt could see – "and I knew he was going to kill her. I knew the way I knew with you, darlin', that she had to get away from him. He was tryin' to pawn her off hard that night, so I suspected he didn't have a penny to his name. I called him out on his debt, in the hopes of getting him against a wall, and when he was there, I bartered for his daughter."

"So, she belongs to you _indefinitely_?" Kurt asked. Blaine's gesture had been noble, and Kurt couldn't fault him. He needed to do something. He saw an opportunity, and he took it. But if he was making Brittany pay off the debt of him saving her from an abusive father, something any decent human being should have done without expectation of a reward, then it goes back to being barbaric.

"Nope," Blaine said. "She can leave whenever she wants."

"Does she know that?" This time, _Kurt_ was harsh, and Blaine looked hurt, a reaction Kurt didn't anticipate.

"Yes, she does," Blaine replied. "I just don't think she's ready, is all. She has a family here, with Santana and Kitty and the other girls. I don't think she's too eager to leave it."

Kurt had to admit that he got that impression, too. Maybe their dreams were similar, his and Brittany's, but they wanted it in different ways. Kurt was willing to strike out on his own, sacrifice anything he had to make his dreams real, but he'd always had a blind faith that things would turn out the way he wanted _just_ because he wanted them. Brittany didn't see it that way, and looking at things through her eyes, Kurt could see where attaining her dream seemed rather daunting. She had no confidence in herself, or in her abilities. She had been held down for so long that any self-worth she'd ever had had been buried long ago, and Kurt wondered what it would take to get it back.

But he had an amends to make to Blaine, who looked at him with saddened eyes and a downturned mouth, bothered by the thought that Kurt felt he had been some kind of monster in the way he'd handled Brittany.

"You know," Kurt said, giving Blaine a smile, "that generous streak you've got, it's kind of bad for business."

Blaine's eyes found Kurt's, playful and teasing, and the hazel in them simmered to a burnished gold.

"I'm not that generous," he said, "but I think you'll find out, sooner than later, darlin', that some of what I do around here ain't all about business."


	10. Chapter 10

"Kitty!" Santana called, rushing across the gambling room floor to where Kitty stood against the bar, talking up potential business. "Kitty, could you take Kurt up a bowl of soup and a roll? I'm a little swamped at the moment."

"I'll do it." Sebastian jumped at the opportunity, seeing as he hadn't been able to visit Kurt since the day before. Even now, as he broached the possibility of spending his break with Kurt, Blaine, up in his balcony, talking over matters with one of his hired men, kept a watchful eye on Sebastian, ensuring he'd have no chance to leave his station and visit Kurt.

"Uh, I don't think so," Kitty said when she glanced up Blaine's way and saw him glaring down at them, but namely at Sebastian. "Not if you wanna keep both ears. You know that Blaine can hit the left one at this distance."

"Come on, Kitty," her impatient customer at the bar said, reaching for her hand, "are we gonna go upstairs or not?"

"Sure," Kitty assured him with a flirtatious smile. "I just gotta go run a little errand, and…"

"I'll do it," Tina said behind them, causing all three to turn her way, each one wearing a suspicious expression.

"Why?" Santana asked, raising a scathing brow. "You don't even _like_ Kurt."

"Come on, Tana" - Tina waved a dismissing hand in front of her face - "you know me. It's not like that. I don't warm up to people all too quick. And I was really overwhelmed when this whole thing with him blew up is all…"

"Overwhelmed?" Kitty scoffed. "You decided to fuck a trick by the side of the road instead of getting the doc while the poor man lay bleeding to death!"

"Who told you that?" Tina asked, playing hurt to cover up her own suspicious tilt.

"Pastor Menkins told us," Santana said, "over cards a few nights ago. He said he saw you guys. He even stopped for a bit of the show." She shuddered at that admission. Some of the creepiest men they got in Blaine's place were supposed _men of the cloth_. "And does it matter who saw? You still did it! When Blaine found out, he wanted your head…" Santana crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes becoming dark. "And to be honest, _chica_ , he's not the only one."

Tina wasn't that impressed by Santana's attempts at intimidation, but the comment about Blaine nearly slaughtered her. She knew he had been angry at her. But, even then, she thought that _angry_ was too strong a word. _Annoyed_ seemed a more accurate term. But wanting her head? No. That had to be an exaggeration. Santana and the girls had a flair for the dramatic. But she filed it away and continued on, trying her hardest to come across as sincere.

"Look, I don't want us should fight." she said, her hands raised in a gesture of truce. "I wanna do right by Kurt. I mean, that was horrible what happened to him. And he's gonna be here a while, right?" A sneer shadowed her words. "So, I should make nice. Extend the white flag. And I can start by bringing him his lunch."

Santana, Kitty, and Sebastian glanced at one another, not a one of them believing her for a second, but as the three of them were currently engaged, there wasn't much else they could do.

"I don't think we've got any other choice," Santana said, looking over at the table of gentlemen she'd left, beckoning her back, one shaking his bag of coin her way as an enticement. It was a move that definitely caught Blaine's attention, and when her eyes flicked up his way, he gestured to the table with a piercing stare and a sharp jerk of his head. "I've got a group thing in the main parlor with Britt. I gotta go."

"Yeah, and we should be headin' upstairs, too," Kitty's customer intervened, sounding positively irate. "Ain't that right, Miss Kitty?"

Sebastian watched both girls retreat with their customers to different areas of The Canary Cage, then looked up at Blaine, staring him down like an eagle would a wounded animal, waiting for it to make the wrong move so it could swoop in and go for the jugular. He heard a throat clear, and remembered Tina, waiting with hands on hips, smiling triumphantly in a way he didn't like one bit. But Santana was right. He didn't have a choice. Because if he asked Blaine for permission to take Kurt his soup, then Blaine would take it up to him himself, and as far as Sebastian was concerned, Blaine had already monopolized too much of the man's time.

"Alright," Sebastian agreed. "I'll get you his bowl of soup. But _be nice_ , Tina…or else."

"Or else what?" she said with a derisive titter. She took Sebastian far less seriously than she did either of the other girls. She'd seen Kitty and Santana scratch. She knew they could bite. Santana, in particular, had a wicked left hook, and each of them carried a pistol under their skirts for close encounters. (Santana claimed she hid a knife up in her privates, but Tina didn't see how. Still, she wouldn't put it past her.) Sebastian, however, hid behind his bar, slinging drinks and making small talk. When a fight broke out on the gambling room floor, for the most part, he did nothing. He cleaned blood and sick off the wood, tossed the odd surly drunk out, and carried the girls upstairs when they were treated ill or feeling poorly. He was as neutered as they came. She'd seen men down an eye and a few limbs with more fight in them than Sebastian had. He sure as heck didn't frighten _her_.

Sebastian leaned forward over the bar, baleful green eyes capturing her gaze. She was amused by it at first, little Sebby Smythe asserting his dominance, until he started to speak, and the heartless quality of his voice, one she'd never heard him use with anyone before, shot straight through her like a bullet.

"Or else," he said, "Blaine won't be the only one with a claim on your head."

His tone was hostile enough to make his intent crystal clear, yet still, she couldn't take him seriously.

"Right," Tina said, laughing him off despite his malicious attitude. "You don't have the nerve to touch me. Especially not with Blaine around."

"Maybe not," he said, his voice dropping lower. "But _I_ wouldn't have to. Blaine's not the only man around here with the money it takes to make people disappear. And the men I associate with are a lot less showy than his, a lot less likely to leave a trail lying around for people to follow." He knocked her a wink and a bone-chilling smile. "Savvy?"

Tina couldn't swallow after that. She'd heard things about Sebastian when she first showed up here, things that curdled milk, but seeing him day after day, with the same pathetic smile on his boyish face, hearing his constant _pleases_ and _excuse mes_ and _thank yous_ , calling every girl in the place _missus_ and _madam_ , she didn't believe that a one of them could be true.

And maybe she couldn't make herself believe it now, but she figured she should still watch her back. She'd get a pistol of her own, keep it underneath her skirt during the day and under her pillow at night, make it a point not to sleep alone from now on.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she said, her cheeks burning red but her body stone cold. "Don't get your pants in a knot there, Sebby. Just fetch me the bowl, will ya?" Sebastian peeled himself away from the bar and headed for the kitchen, with Tina calling after him, "And make it quick there."

Not because she was concerned about getting a healing man his lunch, but because she needed to be as far away as possible from Sebastian Smythe.

* * *

Thoughts of Blaine had begun entering Kurt's dreams; dreams of the like he'd never had before. Dreams where Kurt waited for Blaine in bed – _their_ bed – naked, healed, strong, a whole man, with no more bruises to remind him of the broken person he was; no more hurts that needed mending; no more stitches holding his skin together; no more busted bones to splint. Blaine would walk in smelling of French lilac soap and clean linen, pants undone, shirt unbuttoned, skin washed and face unshaven. Kurt had seen him this way, and the image seared itself into his brain. It wouldn't leave him be – awake or asleep. Blaine would look him over shamelessly from head to toe and see a lover, not a helpless invalid, beaten and abused by his ogre of a husband, prisoner of a shoddy marriage with no way to break free. He would see _Kurt_ waiting for him, pure and simple, and, in Kurt's dreams, what Blaine saw, he apparently liked.

Kurt fantasized Blaine licking his lips when he saw him, his eyes dancing, his desire for Kurt showing through the warmth of his smile, the eager reach of his arm…his growing member outlined in the front of his pants. Blaine would smile at him, touch his cheek, his palm against Kurt's skin pulling Kurt close. He'd kiss Kurt's mouth with no hesitation, no question, and no revulsion whatsoever. He wouldn't demand anything from Kurt. He wouldn't try to control him. He'd undress Kurt with reverence and treat him with respect, treat him as equal. Blaine would kiss down Kurt's neck, down his chest, whispering words of love as he went. He wouldn't tie Kurt up or hold him down. He'd give Kurt freedom to move. They'd move together, decide what to do, how fast to go, at the same time. Blaine would be tender, gentle. He wouldn't do a thing to hurt Kurt, wouldn't raise a hand to him, and for the first time in his life, Kurt would feel like an active participant. He'd feel adored and loved. He'd be with a man who wanted to fill him with pleasure, not fear and pain.

They'd make love together till the floor boards beneath them creaked, and the bed slammed against the wall. Kurt could almost hear it, too - ringing in his ears.

Clank…bang…clank…bang…clank…bang… _BANGBANGBANG!_

Kurt jerked, then startled awake, yanked rudely from his dream by the sound of high-heeled shoes clunking across the wood floor. Plates shuffled loudly off the bedside table, and new ones dropped in their place, an entire mug overturning, spilling water over the edge. Kurt's eyes snapped open, his head throbbing at the flood of light to his brain. He blinked a few times, then saw Tina, standing beside what he assumed was his lunch on the table. She glared at him with raw abhorrence in her eyes, as if he had rode into town on a black horse and savagely massacred everyone she loved.

"Are you alright?" Kurt asked, right as Tina dropped another dish on the pile. She stopped dead, as if Kurt's words had deeply offended her, and dumped the whole lot of dishes on the end of the bed, the noise thunderous to his ears.

"I don't like you," she announced. "There. I said it."

Kurt sat up slowly, confused by the way she stared at him, arms crossed, lips pressed tight, gaze set to bore holes through his forehead.

"I'm …sorry?" He didn't want to sound condescending, but it came across that way. He had no idea why this woman should hate him. Of all the girls working in Blaine's establishment, Tina had spoken to him only a handful of times, all along the lines of _goodbye_. She seemed distant, preoccupied, never making the time to come over and say _hey_. She spent much of her time in the balcony with Blaine, perched on his knee. Kurt figured that meant she was Blaine's favorite, and it made Kurt jealous out the eyeballs. But Santana assured him that there weren't nothing to it. She said Blaine liked to have a girl on his arm because it gave him panache, but that he hadn't taken up with any of them in a long while, definitely not since Kurt had started coming in to the place.

Santana also joked that Tina took to hanging in the balcony with Blaine because she didn't have much luck on the gambling hall floor with the rest of them around. Kurt's heart had gone out to her since the girls didn't seem to like her too much, and he imagined it must be lonely not to have any of them as friends. When he began visiting The Canary Cage regularly, and Blaine came down from the balcony to talk to him, Kurt saw Tina work the floor. She wasn't much adept at flirting, though she acted pleasant enough to everyone, provided they could pay for her time. Otherwise, she dropped them like a moldy, moth-eaten hat, which might explain why she wasn't too popular.

She seemed to have her heart set on Blaine though. Kurt thought it was a matter of admiration. All the girls had it. But with Tina…Kurt didn't know. There seemed to be a hold on her, and he wondered if there had ever been a promise between them. Blaine would probably be willing to tell him, but Kurt had no idea how he would even ask such a question.

"You should be," she snapped. "Comin' in here like ya own the place and screwin' everything up." Kurt opened his mouth to defend himself, but she hurried on before he could retort. "Let me tell you something about Blaine, Kurt. He is the best man you'll find anywhere around these parts. Oh, he may have his mean moments, and he may seem hard as iron, but he's human. And a human man deserves to be loved, Kurt. Truly and honestly loved."

"Really," Kurt said dryly. "You don't say." He'd be more than happy to lecture Tina on the finer points of deserving to be loved, but she wouldn't stop yapping.

"Now, he seems to have taken a shine to you," she railed on, not wanting to hear him out, "and that I cannot help. But I _will_ tell you one thing – there are plenty of people willing to love him the way he should be loved, absolutely and completely; people willing to spend their lives with him, ring or no. Plenty of people who deserve him more than you, Kurt, so you just remember that."

"I don't really understand what you're trying to say," Kurt said, his hackles rising. He'd stand and face her down properly if he had the strength to do it. Just thinking about getting up out of bed and standing to his full height made his knees knock together, assuming their own weakness. He didn't appreciate being talked to this way when he literally couldn't stand up for himself.

"What I'm sayin' here is back off, Kurt. I won't be havin' you waltz on in here, makin' Blaine turn all love-struck for you, then breaking his heart when you finally run off to New York and leave him. He deserves better than that."

 _Waltz_? Kurt wanted to laugh bitterly at her choice of words. Laugh until his bones re-broke and his stitches tore. Did anything he did to get here look like _waltzing_ to her?

"Well, while I appreciate your concern," Kurt said, smoothing the blankets around him, needing to occupy his hands so he didn't pick up something on the table beside him and throw it at her head, "and I'm certain that Blaine appreciates your loyalty, Blaine's a big boy…"

"He _sure_ as shootin' is," she cut in, rolling the words behind a suggestive smirk that set Kurt's ears burning. But he didn't bite back. He didn't want this woman to know she'd gotten to him. So what if she and Blaine had messed around? That had nothing to do with him, or anything potential that he and Blaine might share. But he also had to be realistic, and look at the long term. This thing he had for Blaine, the feelings he had, this need growing within him, it read to him like infatuation. Blaine was one of the first men who treated Kurt with kindness, who looked at Kurt and saw the man beneath the black eyes and the scars. And look at all he'd done to get Kurt healed and out of danger. Of course, one look from Blaine could make Kurt's toes curl in his boots, but that's because Blaine was an exceptionally charming and handsome man. He knew how to use those assets to his best advantage. He probably did it so often that he didn't even realize when he did it.

That didn't mean Kurt was special.

But aside from that, Kurt had to face the facts. The life he wanted was in New York, and he had to work toward getting to it, with or without Blaine in his life, or else everything that had happened up till this point would have been for nothing.

"I'm confident he can make those kinds of decisions for himself," Kurt finished coolly, staring at Tina with steely eyes. "He seems to be a more than competent businessman, with a good head on his shoulders. And to be frank, I think he might find it a bit insulting that you feel the need to fight his battles for him – battles that might not actually exist, or at least, have nothing to do with you. Because I don't really think that _Blaine's_ business is _your_ business, especially not where it concerns his relationship with me." Tina's superior expression dropped clean away, and Kurt's grin rose. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to finish my nap." Kurt maneuvered himself on the bed to put his back to her. "You can see yourself out. Oh" – He regarded her half-wise over one shoulder – "and I'll be talking to Blaine about not asking you to come up here to help me. Save you the trouble of interrupting your work." Kurt slid down under the blankets till they covered his head, curled up with his knees tucked tight against his chest, and shut his eyes, determined to ignore whatever tantrum Tina chose to throw before she left.

It was the same technic he'd used in an attempt to avoid David's temper time and again, not that it was too successful. He hated that he had to employ it here, in his place of safety.

Tina glared hotly at the lump huddled underneath Blaine's blankets that was Kurt. He wasn't going to go away willingly, that was for damn sure. And why would he? Blaine was making it nice and comfy for Kurt here – new job, a place to stay, free meals, a salary, on top of the singular attention he obviously craved. Of course he wasn't going to give that up.

That didn't mean that getting rid of Kurt was impossible. _Nothing_ was impossible. It was just going to be a tad more difficult than she had originally anticipated.

But, maybe that was because she was appealing to the wrong man.

* * *

Tina had gone the past two weeks watching Blaine sit vigil at Kurt's bedside, and she despised it. She wasn't like the rest of the girls at Blaine's place. She didn't go gaga over Kurt when he first walked through the door. Tina didn't need another hard luck, lost cause stumbling in with a sad song to nurse back to health. Unlike other people who found their way into Blaine's saloon, Tina didn't have a tragic backstory that brought her to The Canary Cage. Sure, her parents tossed her out with the trash when she was only a newborn, covered in blood with cord still attached, because they didn't need another girl to waste food on, but she didn't hold that against them.

It was the same old story with plenty of immigrant families from her corner of the world – already burdened with a daughter, and trying for years in hopes of having a son, disappointed by the arrival of yet another daughter. The first daughter was worth little, the next daughter worth less, and so on and so on, until a freshly-birthed, beet root faced baby girl wasn't even considered a human being anymore. If they weren't strangled at birth, they might be drowned, traded, or sold.

The only real value in a first born daughter was in striking a good match, but no respectable man wanted the second or third in line. So consequent baby girls were often tossed on the rubbish heap with the moldy lettuce and maggot-ridden rice for the dogs to eat. But in Tina's case, a nice, well-off, childless couple found her and took her in. They raised her as their own, gave her a decent education, and a life free of want. They spared the rod and spoiled her plenty. In the grand scheme, she had no reason to feel sorry for herself.

But marriage at eighteen to a lawyer or an accountant wasn't what she wanted, so she ran away. She rode what there were of the rails, disguised as a man, until she reached Lima, where the tracks ended. That's when she saw him - Blaine Anderson, strolling down the street, whistling to himself, smiling and tipping his hat to the men and women he passed. He was being polite, personable, not really paying anyone too much mind. But when he saw her, dressed in her father's suit, which she had tailored to hide her figure; her long, ebony hair falling free of her hat; there was a moment when he stopped walking. He looked at her and pursed his lips. Then he smiled, big and bright, and she knew right then and there that the two of them were meant to be.

He'd extended her an arm and brought her inside, gave her a hot meal and a dress to wear, and she'd been one of his girls ever since.

No, Tina wasn't at The Canary Cage because she was running away from something.

She was there for one reason, and one reason only.

 _Blaine Anderson._

Tina didn't bring in much money compared to the other girls. She didn't entertain too often. She preferred to sing for her supper (though she rarely got the chance). She'd sit in on a game, serve drinks, keeping herself available to adorn Blaine's lap whenever he needed to show off a piece. She had two regulars. The first, a bookish young man named Arthur, attended school in the next town. He was soft-spoken and kind, wore glasses, and had a strange limp that required him to rely heavily on a cane. She didn't normally go for the infirm, but he treated her with miles of respect, wasn't bossy in bed, and was a real good tipper. Her other regular was a cowboy who called himself Mike. He was an immigrant from China, like Tina's birth folks. But unlike a lot of transplants, he changed his name the second he stepped on American soil. He visited The Canary Cage whenever their paths crossed, which it seemed to do more and more often as of late. She didn't know how much trail hands were being paid these days, but he had plenty of money to spend on her. He was upstanding, moral, polite, and hardworking. By all accounts, he would make a perfect husband. Her adopted parents, so fired eager to marry her off, might even approve…if she ever spoke to them again, which she hadn't since she left.

But it didn't matter to her if both those men were the long lost heirs of King Midas, with castles full of gold to their names and only a want to spend it all on her.

Neither of those men were Blaine.

In Tina's eyes, Blaine was a prince among men. As far she was concerned, he needed to get away from Kurt and realize that there were better things in life, better people. People who didn't need fixing. People who would accept him for who he was. People who had been there for him for a while now, and who had no intentions of leaving, no matter what the trouble.

If Blaine couldn't see that for himself, she'd have to find a way to make him see.

But that proved difficult since he didn't want her within a mile of him lately. When he saw her coming, he'd scowl at her and walk the other way. She figured her best bet was to corner him in his balcony. She pretended to talk up a john while she kept an eye on Blaine, waiting for his hired men to leave. Once they headed off down the stairs, she made her move, leaving the drunk man on his bar stool, completely unaware that she had left. She cut through the crowd, making her way up to Blaine's loft before anyone could decide that they needed to speak with him. Blaine spotted her coming up the stairs, but before she could open her mouth to say _hey_ , he waved her away.

"I'm not givin' you permission to be up here," Blaine said, his gaze aimed at the gambling floor below, watching the general goings on the way he always did, except that he didn't seem committed to the moment. His mind was elsewhere, and Tina could guess where that was.

"Oh, Blainey," she cooed. "Don't be like that."

"I'll be however I damn well please," he said. "You just be grateful I don't put your ass out on the street, the stunt you pulled."

"I _am_ grateful, Blaine," Tina said with bile on her tongue. "I wish you'd let me up and show you how much."

Blaine chuckled mirthlessly. "I'd rather fuck a hornet's nest raw. But I reward loyalty, and you've been loyal. Next time, I won't give it a second thought."

"I know," Tina said, this kowtowing sticking her like a cattle prod to the heart, since she wouldn't have to do it if it wasn't for Kurt.

God dammed fucking Kurt.

"Besides, I'm not stayin' up here. I'm gonna go check on Kurt. So skedaddle."

"What a coincidence," Tina said in her honeyest voice, overlooking Blaine's vile insults, "since that's exactly who I wanted to talk to you about."

"Yeah?" Blaine pricked up with a bit more interest. "Well, get to talkin'. You've got one minute." Blaine took out his pocket watch to put emphasis on it.

She lifted her foot to take the final step up, but he threw up a hand to stop her.

"Nu-uh," he said. "You can talk to me just fine from there."

She submitted to a spot on the step one below. She seethed behind her eyes, but smiled with a sympathy that was practiced. On the norm, she didn't feel sympathy for most no one.

"I think he's got the idea that you're sweet on him," she said, fretting her hands in front of her where Blaine would be sure to notice. "And I don't know how comfortable he is with that."

"Well, it's not your place to be thinking for him," Blaine said. "If something I do or say bothers him, he'll tell me." _Or maybe not_ , he realized, considering Kurt's husband made it plain what happened when Kurt objected to the way he was treated. But Blaine wasn't going to admit that to Tina. He knew what she was about, what she wanted. That didn't mean she didn't have eyes and ears. She could be telling the truth. Blaine constantly over-thought his actions where they involved Kurt. He was willing to admit to himself that he _did_ like the man, and that he had gone ahead and appointed himself to the role of guardian unsolicited. But as far as he could tell, Kurt wasn't in a position where he could ask for help. Blaine had to step in and give it. He didn't think anything he'd done had made Kurt uncomfortable. "If that's all you gotta say, then you should just run along. I've got some thirsty, lonely customers downstairs while you're up here jibber-jabberin'."

"That ain't all," she said, steeling herself for her next remark. "I don't think it's right of you to string him along."

Blaine raised a furious brow. He sat forward in his chair, fit to leap out and meet her nose to nose. She clenched her hands tight to keep from backing down another step.

"I'm not stringin' him along," Blaine said. "And besides, I don't see why you care."

"Blaine" – Tina's gaze, steeped in faux regret, dropped solemnly to the floor - "I know you're angry with me, but I care about you. And believe it or not, I care about Kurt, too." She nearly bit her tongue in half when she said it. Blaine chuckled sarcastically, and her gaze popped up. "I do. God, you think a one of y'all would give me the benefit of the doubt."

"Benefit of _what_ doubt?" Blaine countered in the same sarcastic voice. "You tryin' to tell me that you've gone through some massive change of heart since the night you almost let him die?"

Tina gasped. She could possibly understand Blaine being angry, but claiming she would have had a hand in killing Kurt…that was taking things a bit too far. But she was willing to overlook it, seeing as he was emotional, his association with Kurt turning him daisy-headed.

"You can be mad at me forever if you want, Blaine…"

"I don't need your permission," Blaine cut in.

Again, Tina bit her tongue.

"…but I think you and I and everyone here knows…you can't keep him." Tina softened her tone. "He has big plans, Blaine. He talks about them all the time. And he has every right to follow them."

"I know," Blaine said. "He wants to go to New York. I don't mean to keep him from that."

"Yeah, I know you know, but I also know that look on your face."

Blaine huffed. "And what look is that?"

"Those hound-dog eyes, and that gaze, full of longin'. That's you hopin' he'll decide he's happy here and stay. But he ain't gonna be happy here, Blaine, and it would be a sin to try and force him for your sake."

"You don't know that," Blaine argued. "Maybe he would. Or maybe…"

Tina watched the expression on Blaine's face change, his gaze casting over the balcony, chasing a train of thought off in the distance. To the future, she realized, with an ice cold knot forming in her burning stomach.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe it's time I made a change," Blaine said. "Do sumthin' different. I mean, The Canary Cage has been good to me and all, but I never intended it to be forever, to tell you the truth."

"But…but…it ain't been forever!" Tina insisted, on the verge of panic. She knew it! She knew something like this would happen! That sad sack coming in here would ruin her life, shut down her home, and steal her Blaine away. "And what about the rest of us, huh? Where would we go if you closed up shop?"

"I wouldn't be closin' up shop. I'd keep it open, just under new management." Plans started coalescing in Blaine's brain. Tina could see them sparking behind his eyes, and that knot in her stomach grew bigger and bigger until it felt like she would burst. "Sebastian's a smart guy. Maybe he'd like a hand at runnin' the place in my stead. He might even buy in a share. I could open up in New York, too. Make The Canary Cage a chain."

It'd also keep Sebastian from following Kurt when they left, pining after him like a love sick puppy. That was reason enough for Blaine for keeping the place open in Lima.

Tina bit her lips together to keep from making a snide remark. No way could she stay here if Sebastian ran the place, not that that was ever a question, but especially not after what happened downstairs. She knew she'd never be invited to go with them to New York, but she didn't want to go there anyway. She'd come from there, and she didn't quite get what the big deal was. Why go to a place that's filthy, smelly, crowded, and filled to bursting with pickpockets, and desperados right off the boat? And talking about boats, they came through every day, stuffed to the gills with people, each one a stinking, rotting mess of disease and vermin. God, no. She'd done too much to get away from all of that. She wasn't going back.

Again, not like she'd be invited.

"Are you sure you could be happy in New York, Blaine?" she tried. "You'd be startin' again, from the bottom, and you know how you feel about that."

"It wouldn't be from the bottom," Blaine said, knowing she was appealing to his pride. "The Canary Cage's famous in these parts, and New York ain't that far. People there gotta know about us. But I ain't afeared of startin' over if it comes to that. It might be exciting. And New York, Tina? Who wouldn't be happy in New York? Come on."

Tina nodded, on the brink of defeat. But that was okay, because this wouldn't be the final battle.

The war had just begun.

"That's not all," she said, pulling out the last card up her sleeve. "Of course, it ain't my place to say…"

"You're right," Blaine cut her off, hoping to hear the end of it. "It ain't."

"But, Kurt," she continued, "he's hurtin'. He just got out of a bad relationship…and an awful, terrible marriage. Do you think it's fair to tie him down again so soon? Don't you think he deserves his freedom?"

This time, Blaine's response wasn't as quick coming as the rest. He stuttered, this one thought at the actual core of his doubt, and Tina knew she'd hit pay dirt.

"I never said a thing about tying him down."

"You don't have to. He'll do it himself. You've heard his story. It's in his nature."

"Why would he?" Blaine bit. "He's his own person. He knows his own mind."

"Out of obligation, Blaine. After all you done for him, the care you've given him, the money you've spent on him. You've given him a place to stay, with no expectation of him payin' you back. I know you'll come up with some kind of repayment…" she added when she saw Blaine ready to object, "to make him feel better and all, but you'll find a way to slip it back, pad his paycheck when he ain't lookin', or leave it in his pocket after the two of you…" Tina stopped and swallowed, the idea of Kurt sporting around with her Blaine something she couldn't stomach, let alone give voice to. "But he's already put himself on the block once, sold himself off for security's sake. He'll do the same for you, and I think…well, I think that's just wrong, Blaine."

Blaine stared at her blankly, then he laughed. Or he tried to. "Y-you don't know what you're talking about, Tina. And I'm tired of listening to you."

"Blaine…"

"Get downstairs and earn a living, or leave." He turned hard eyes away. He put his back to her, the way Kurt had, and Tina knew he wouldn't listen to anymore.

She sighed dramatically.

"Just…think about it," she said. She waited for some acknowledgement, and when she didn't get it, she turned on her stair and headed down. She didn't say everything she wanted, but she knew in her heart, she'd said plenty. She didn't like entertaining men much, but she knew them a fair bit, knew from traveling with them and listening to their talk. She knew that a single thorn pricking in their brains was sometimes all they needed to second-guess themselves. She just hoped the thorn she'd stuck Blaine with was big enough to do the trick.

But Blaine didn't have to be stuck, because he'd already been thinking about those things.

It frightened Blaine how quickly he'd decided he'd follow Kurt anywhere, leave his home here at The Canary Cage and join him in New York. Blaine hadn't been lying to Tina. He had long thought he could use a change of scenery, maybe get his life back on its original course. He had dreams once, too. Dreams not that different from Kurt's. Maybe Kurt's coming to his saloon was more than an accident. Maybe it was more like fate. Maybe Kurt was the light that would lead him back on the path he had strayed so far from.

Blaine knew he could be good for Kurt, be a loving partner, a far cry better one than David, if Kurt only gave him the chance.

But more frightening than his sudden swell of affection for Kurt, his need to protect him and aid him in any way, was the prospect that Kurt might not want him.


End file.
